Summary: And this monstrosity, ladies and gentlemen, is called a paper airplane.
Disclaimer: I own my OC and the alternativeness of this plot. Everything else belongs to Robert Jordan. Only one paper airplane was harmed in the making of this fic (It could have avoided this fate had it not flown down Arymilla's dress.)
Author's notes are at the end of the chapter.
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CHAPTER SIX- Much Ado About Nothing- Part I
Wind that held no promise of the winter-that-should-have-been made the two flags over Caemlyn's Royal Palace flap and writhe. One flag was red with a circle divided by a sinuous line and the other bore a golden, four-legged serpent on a field of white. To some, these flags held an ominous presence; promising hope alongside despair. But to Loran, they were no more than pretty colors on a piece of fabric. Perhaps it was because he, admittedly, did not understand the history and prophecies of this land and did not really care; or perhaps it was because pictures of dragons and other strange symbols were common in his world. Either way, he was not bothered by them in the least, and thought others slightly ridiculous for being so.
Loud clacking sounds filled the courtyard and Loran propped himself up on his elbows and watched, in idle interest from his place atop the walkway's overhanging roof, the sparring that took place below. Rand was fighting five other men, lost in a dance of scuffling feet and twirling swords. Like something out of a pirate movie, he thought to himself, and he was at once both surprised and reassured by the return of the unexpected memory.
Small reflections of light burst every now and again from metallic dragons that twined around each of Rand's forearms, something Loran was still not used to, though he'd seen them days before. A round scar stretched and strained as Rand moved and the other boy winced every time it seemed like the skin would tear open once more. That wound did not feel right to Loran. It was much like the tainted of saidin that he felt every time Rand channeled. He considered himself lucky, as his 'flow' of saidin remained untainted. However, Rand still gave him this odd, wary look whenever he channeled that made it seem as if having no taint hinted at something evil.
He rubbed the back of his head lazily, lay back down with feet crossed and arms folded behind his head, and returned to letting the tapered flag mesmerize him with its billowing motions. Dressed in tan colored pants and a plain white shirt, (each rolled or pushed up to the knees and elbows, respectively) many of the nobles did not even notice his presence; those that did, ignored him. He preferred it that way, which was why he'd stubbornly held out against the tailor until the man promised that only one of the sets of clothing would consist of courtier's shirt, coat, and pants. This was in part to help keep Rand's fake advisor 'under the radar', as Loran said, as those who were aware of the boy's situation wished to avoid any cause for suspicions among the nobles. That and his current attire was most similar to the denim and t-shirts he was used to wearing as- as- Loran brought a fist to his forehead, tapping it lightly, and tried to remember what it was he'd so suddenly forgotten. Something about himself?
Probably.
He groaned and crossed his arms in a pout. These blanks spots in his memory were becoming irritating, especially when he was talking to Rand about his world. The moment the subject came too close to his personal memories, everything went blank. Things were starting to come back, true, but there were times when he wasn't sure what memories were new and which memories he was simply re-remembering from the day before.
"Pay them," Loran started forward as he heard what seemed to be the end of the match, "Path them all." A Maiden came forward and dropped gold coins into each of the opponents' hands, glaring openly at their swords. If there was one thing Loran was aware of in this world, it was that the people- what did they call themselves?- oh right, the Aiel, though skilled warriors, refused to even touch swords if they could help it; they were even hostile against those who did use them.
Cautiously, he channeled. Rand looked directly at the sudden flow of power then covered his actions by pretending to stretch his neck as he saw it was only Loran. The nobility were already shaking in their slippers as it was- they did not need to know another channeller, even one whose power did not have the taint, was present. Not yet. Two small, cone-like weaves of air around his feet allowed Loran to leap into a nearby tree and lower himself to the ground while making a good show at climbing to throw off anyone who noticed. Using air weaves like that wasn't a trick Rand taught him, but one he'd discovered by accident. His ability to use some weaves, even some Rand did not know, and inability to even learn others was rapidly defining his range of skills as Rand taught him on occasion; they'd also learned to keep Loran well away from angreal.
-Flashback-
"If you are insisting on following me everywhere, you might as well learn to Travel so you won't risk being left behind. You have the first part down right, but you're letting the weave drop before you can use it," the exasperation in Rand's voice was apparent as Loran attempted for what very well could have been the one-hundredth time that day to successfully Travel. The Dragon Reborn found himself wishing Asmodean were there; the Forsaken made a far better teacher than he ever could.
"I'm trying! But as soon as I'm almost finished, something keeps unraveling it, like it's trying to stop me or something," was the whiny reply. The tone implied that unless another approach was found soon, the Dragon Reborn could forget about teaching him this particular weave. Ever. Reluctantly, Rand released saidin and stuck a hand into his pocket.
"You seem to have the capacity to Travel, but maybe you have trouble holding enough saidin once you have the weave," he hesitated, then drew out a small figure of a man with a sword, "Try- try channeling with this."
"What is it?" Loran eyed it dubiously.
"It is an angreal. It amplifies your strength in the One Power, basically."
At the moment Loran's hand came into contact with the small angreal, two things happened at once. First, the angreal began to hum. Soon it was jittering hard enough to make Rand's arm shake. It grew warmer and warmer until finally Rand dropped the figure with a curse when it threatened to burn his hand. It shook on the floor a few times and then stopped, a faint red color receding back into its depths as it cooled. The second thing that happened was that Loran's skin turned sickly pallor and he clapped a hand over his mouth, making a strained whimpering sound. Rushing to a window that had been left ajar to allow greater air circulation, he pushed it out the rest of the way, sicking up over the outer wall of the palace. Rand hurried to the hunched over figure, glanced out the window, and almost gagged himself. He avidly avoided the sight again as he gripped the other boy's shoulder to get his attention.
"What happened?" He asked through the distraction of the voice babbling incessantly in the back of his mind in reaction to the backfiring angreal.
"I don't know," the brown-eyed boy gasped. "I felt like I was gonna be torn apart," he glanced at the figurine now lying innocently on the floor with an expression of dread. "There aren't anymore things like that, are there?"
"Yes, why?" Loran drew his head back out the window and dry heaved.
"Don't let me go near one ever again."
-End Flashback-
A woman dressed in green practically draped herself over Rand and Loran grimaced. He knew her: Arymilla. They'd met one not-so-fateful day while he was practicing his skill with paper airplanes in the throne room. She caught sight of him and her smile vanished. He honestly didn't understand why she held such contempt for him. If her dress hadn't been cut so low, the paper airplane would have never-
"What is he doing here," a voice from the crowd murmured. Usually, Loran would have ignored such a comment, but today he was feeling a bit obnoxious. He gave a sweeping bow and smiled brightly at the group.
"Good day m'Ladies, m'Lords. Lovely day isn't it?" he heard some moans and few women began taking out their fans, dabbing lightly at their faces with handkerchiefs. "Why, Lady Arymilla, that is a lovely dress you're wearing," he was met with a few glares, a few chuckles- mostly from those who had learned of the 'paper glider' incident, and Arymilla's face, which contorted and turned a brilliant red as she tried to remove the light-haired boy from existence with her eyes. Rand coughed into his hand to cover a laugh. This called the attention of the nobles and Loran used the opportunity to escape.
Once inside the palace, he made his way to the Throne Room, were he had spent most of his time with Rand. He just had to leave a note for Rand 'so when something finally exploded he would know where to send the guards.' That, of course, had been Loran's vocal opinion of the rule, and though Rand had stubbornly denied that as being a reason, the dark-eyed boy stood by the image that had flashed through his head when his older companion had formally placed the rule into action. However much he teased and complained, though, he actually felt compelled to follow the order. It wasn't an aim to please or gain trust; it was like a habit or routine, something he just did everyday without much thought, but something that nagged him all day if he failed to follow through. The concept seemed similar to mind control for some reason. Loran realized this as he finished writing the note. He felt like a fool, all of a sudden.
Footsteps behind him barely registered in his mind, and in turning he was brought face to face with a man of at least thirty, a smug look on the man's face and a glint in his eye that made Loran feel as if he was in the presence of a psychopath.
"You are shorter than I was led to believe, Lord Dragon." Loran's mouth opened and closed as he attempted to think of a reply. Then he realized what the man had called him. His stare was locked with the man's eyes, the crazed gleam, and he could not look away. He was frozen, it seemed, eternally bonded to the tile beneath his bare feet. Who was this guy? Did he- did he really think-
"Huh?"
ooOO00OOoo
The torrent of saidin was both hot and cold, a river of ice beneath a skin of molten lead. It filled Rand with life, an intensity of the senses that only some dream of experiencing, yet at the same time, it tore at him from within, threatening to scourge his insides until naught was left. Through the rampage, he wove a simple thread of air, catching Bashere's arm and hand no less than three feet away from his chest. The dagger sat, useless, in the man's fist. Veiled Maidens and armed noblemen advanced on the trapped man until a resounding order for them to halt froze them as if they were also encased in saidin. Rand walked calmly to the man, who had once again seated himself, and plucked the weapon from his grip.
"If I had been an eye blink slower, " he murmured, "I'd be dead." He was no longer channeling, but rage still coiled inside him in substitution of the swirling taint, "I could kill you now, you know, and nothing, no one, would stop me."
"I am sure you could," the older man drolled, "though I'm not certain my wife would appreciate that. More likely than not, she would probably go hunting Taim again, just to spite you. The people you gather around you are both defenses against the natural," he nodded his head toward the dagger, "and the…supernatural. If anything gets past those like you, my men, or your maidens, it definitely will not be human. All I am saying is: be careful. Simple training is not worth getting your head cracked open. Besides, the day you die is day I'm bound to be run out of town by our Andoran comrades." The people in question glared at the Saldaean's comment. It was to be expected, when having to deal with foreign military, even if your leader saw friendship in them. The peace would only last as long as there was other prey to feed on; Rand yearned for the day he could fulfill his plans without their presence.
To live you must die, though he'd heard the saying often, this thought was not his; nor was it Loran's, he was sure. He brought a knuckle to his temple, trying to massage the presence away. I deserve to die. Only to die! Bashere was by his side in an instant, asking if his head was more injured that he'd thought. Rand quickly put his hand down; suddenly aware of the massive attention he was receiving, and replied that he was fine. He scanned the crowd for any sight of Loran; he was always good at distracting the nobles. When he saw no trace of the brown-eyed boy, he frowned. The one time I actually need him and he runs away, the Dragon Reborn thought bitterly. The voice was growing stronger as he grew stronger in the use of saidin, and drawing attention to the very madness his audience feared the most was no way to solidify his status as Dragon Reborn among the wetlanders. The Aiel he had no need to worry about as they saw the marks on his arm, felt the divide he'd caused within their people, and that was more than enough to cause belief that he was car'a'carn. All he had as proof for those who called him the Dragon Reborn was the ever grow voice of what may or may not be Lews Therin in his mind, and that was enough to cause more of a panic than anything else. He vaguely heard Bashere mentioning something about needing an Aes Sedai and he retorted with a comment on trust, the words coming out of his mouth more by practice than by actually meaning it, though he did mean it anyway.
"You will need the approval of the Tower someday," Bashere commented thoughtfully, "No matter how many prophecies you fulfill, many people will still look to the Aes Sedai for guidance."
"In spite of gaining their support, I still won't avoid fighting, not now; especially since I doubt the Whitecloaks will welcome me into Amadicia with open arms under any circumstances, and Sammael won't give up Illian without a fight." Rand felt a sudden loss of weight from his shoulder and, turning, saw Arymilla fall to the ground with a thud. The rest of the crowd looked no better at the mention of the Forsaken's name. Bashere was almost glaring at him, and he gave the man an apologetic look and shrugged his shoulders slightly in a way that said, 'Hey, don't look at me'; a new habit, courtesy of Loran. While he realized such blunt comments came as a shock to most people, he preferred giving the truth and allowing people time to adjust to the news, rather than acting as an Aes Sedai and giving the truth too late for any help that may have come from learning the facts to be useful. Somara approached Rand with a shirt and coat and he dutifully put both articles of clothing on in spite of the heat. He wanted to avoid any lectures he might receive for not taking care of himself and, in a way, he owed it to them. The sound of approaching footsteps brought one of Bashere's men into the courtyard. He focused his attention on the Saldaean while the Maidens focused their attention on him.
"There is a man has presented himself at the gates," the soldier said uneasily. "He says… It is Mazrim Taim, my Lord Bashere."
--ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo--
I originally meant this chapter to end just with Loran meeting Taim, but it seemed so scrawny that I rewrote it and THEN SOME. Then, I decided I wanted to squish chapter 2 of Book 6 in as well, but I got held back by Scarborough Fair (I went last Saturday, I have a picture of me in costume on DeviantArt! Eeee!), college in general, and a strange inability to get past what you have just read- even though I already know what I want to write. Therefore, I'm splitting up chapter 6 into two parts and giving you what is already finished rather than making you guys wait until my brain stops switching trains of thought long enough to get the whole thing finished. Hopefully the second half will push the plot to the speed I want it to be going… and maybe we'll learn more about Loran and Tel'Aran'Rhiod! Ooo! I do realize I'm taking some of the wording from Book 6 verbatum. I did that on purpose for some parts, especially dialog, so as to keep a connection between the fanfiction and the book and make sure it only strays so far as Loran's presence makes it (if that makes sense at all.) I just hope I'm not following the book TOO closely. Tell me if I am so I can keep from making this just another summary of the book. I reread once I uploaded the file to make sure none of the punctuation was taken out but if you see a type, please tell me so I can fix it!
Thanks to theamyrlinseat for reviewing!
Here's the list so far of what we know about Loran:
-He can use Saidin without the taint. He CANNOT use Saidar but he can sense it like a woman who channels can (I guess it's a bit like being Stilled.)
-He and Rand share a link that sometimes communicates strong emotions or image-versions of thoughts. It can only be felt when the feeling is either very strong, the thought is about them personally, or the thought is directed towards the other intentionally.
-He might be able to go into Tel'Aran'Rhiod
-He CANNOT Travel, create a portal to Travel, nor use a portal created by someone else.
-He and angreal/ter'angreal/sa'angreal act negatively when in contact with each other.
