(Thank you to TheBattleSage for editing.)

Arrene, Germanian Empire
May, 1925

My second death came much like my first; unanticipated, and delivered courtesy of a disgruntled subordinate. Much as before, I had done no wrong to this particular subordinate. In fact, I had once saved the life of my second assassin, although that was difficult to remember through the haze the cursed Type 95 had left over my memories.

And just like the coward who had pushed me off the Yamanote Platform long ago and a world away, I am sure that Second Lieutenant Vooren Grantz had felt supremely, if momentarily, justified in his actions.

Or, perhaps not. I could hardly see him from the corner of my eye, but the lieutenant's stiff expression looked far from triumphant. In fact, his blue eyes were wide with horror, the rifle he had used to shoot me in the back frozen mid-fall from his nerveless fingers. I could only hope that he realized he had effectively killed both of us with that same bullet. If Visha and the rest of the 203rd didn't get him first, the ponderous but thorough Imperial military justice system would.

Guaranteed or not, vengeance was cold comfort. What did I care that this new coward sometimes known as Second Lieutenant Grantz would surely join me in death soon enough? Revenge wouldn't make me any less dead. Nothing would, except perhaps for my old enemy, who had turned up once again to harass me in my final moments.

Like a carrion bird, Being X had smelled death and had winged its way down from whatever celestial platform it reclined upon while enjoying the peepshow of mortal existence and slacking off on its duties. Once again, the old crow had come to taunt me, reveling in its power and self-righteousness bloviations. It yammered endlessly on about my failures to accomplish what it saw as my purpose, all the while using my killer as its mouthpiece.

"Oh, shut up already and get this over with," I mentally snapped at the being who spoke with Grantz's mouth, fed up at last and entirely aware that it could hear my thoughts. "Your incompetence wasn't my problem the last time I died, and the number of people cursing your name because of my actions in this life isn't my problem now.

"In both cases," I continued, almost perversely relieved that I was dying once again now that I had an opportunity to rant directly at the true target of my spleen, "you only have yourself to blame, but since you lack the intelligence or bravery to recognize that obvious truth, I'm sure you'll take your frustration out on me. So kindly skip the moralizing; we both know you recognize only your own morality and have no respect for law or obligation anyway."

"SUCH INSOLENCE! YOU HAVE GROWN PRIDEFUL AND ARROGANT UPON YOUR PETTY SUCCESSES, MY LOST CHILD! CAST ASIDE YOUR PRIDE AND WORSHIP ME AS YOUR GOD."

"I will not." My statement hung in the ether with the weight of a solemn promise, a sworn oath. "I will not worship a being as incompetent as you; to do so would be to demean myself. Feel free to skip the threats of obliteration, by the way – we both know they'd just be more bullshit. You accuse me of pride? Your pride is the reason why I'm here at all, and I'm sure your pride won't let me go now either. I'd spit at you, if I could. Bastard."

"HEAR THIS AND KNOW MY MERCY. THOUGH YOU ARE NOT YET FORSAKEN, YOU SHALL BE REBORN ONCE AGAIN. YOU WILL BE REFORGED INTO A TOOL OF MY LIGHT, TRAINED TO MAKE MY WILL MANIFEST UPON THE WORLD, AND PUNISHED FOR YOUR FAILURES. AND IN THE END, YOU WILL BOW BEFORE ME. IN THE END, YOU WILL CALL ME GREAT LORD. IN THE END, MY TRIUMPH IS BUT AN EVENTUALITY.

"THERE IS ONLY ME."

And then, all I knew was searing light, utter darkness, and crushing pain.

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Sunday (Midsummer), Amadaine, 980 NE
Shende Hold, Chareen Aiel, Aiel Waste

Sorilea of the Jarra Sept of the Chareen Aiel, Wise One of Shende Hold, cradled the bundle in her arms with a tenderness that many generations of apprentices would have found uncharacteristic.

Sorelia had heard the same mutters from generation after successive generation of apprentices: That she was as tough as a strip of cured meat, that she was as merciless and unsympathetic as the Termool itself, that desiccated land south of the Threefold Land where not even the Aiel could survive.

Those apprentices Sorelia judged sufficiently circumspect in their gossiping were allowed to discover their own failures and were permitted to set their own toh obligations. Those whose wits were less keen were further shamed when she revealed that two centuries of life had left her ears remarkably keen indeed.

At no point, Sorelia with a smile, had she ever denied the truth of their gossip. She was as tough as a strip of cured meat; she had been made as such by almost two hundred years of life in the Three-fold Land, being sharpened and tested and punished in turn.

"And as young Bair is so fond of saying," Sorilea murmured to the bright blue eyes looking up into her ancient green pair, "the Three-fold Land is not soft; soft things do not live here."

The infant gurgled in her arms, seemingly in agreement. Sorilea smiled down at the baby, her youngest greatdaughter's greatson. "But, you can still be soft yet, little one. Your time will come, and with it shall come the three blessings of the land for our people: a sharpening stone to make us, a testing ground to prove our worth, and a punishment for our sin."

The baby fell silent, its eyes glistening with an awareness that seemed far too old for such young eyes. Sorelia considered her many-times greatchild; it was absurd, but the not-yet day old child seemed to understand what she had said. A ridiculous thought, but Sorilea had seen many strange and ridiculous things over her very long life.

"Ayesha," the Wise One called out to her last surviving greatdaughter's daughter, even as she touched the Source and with her feeble power guided a strand of Spirit to touch the infant's head, "what name have you chosen?"

"Taric, Honored Ancestor," replied her descendent from the cot where she rested, still recovering from the trial of the birth earlier in the evening. From her trip to a proving ground just as rigorous as Rhuidean and equally deadly. Sorelia had attended the birth as both an honored ancestor and as the only healer in a three day run. "My son's name is Taric."

"A good name," Sorilea muttered approvingly, her eyes focused on her greatson, many generations removed, "for a child born the night before the longest day. A strong name. His cries have stopped not even a day after his birth, without a teat in his mouth and without sleep. His eyes are fixed onto my own. Ayesha and Leiran, teach him well of Ji'e'toh, that he might grow truly strong in body and soul."

"We shall, Wise One," answered Leiran, speaking the ritual acknowledgment from his place by his wife's cot. Sorilea eyed the Thunder Walker, and nodded in acknowledgement. He was of the Cosaida Sept, hailing from the territory near the lands of the Tomanelle Aiel, and despite his missing eye still an apt dancer of the spears.

And more than that, she mused, he is a man who understands well Ji'e'toh. He has captured many Gai'shain and is honorable in his dealings, bringing much ji upon himself. Ayesha chose well when she laid her wreath at his feet.

"Then may you find water and shade, until the Last Day," Sorelia replied, fulfilling her part of the ancient ritual, "and may your child and his children likewise find water and shade, til shade and water are gone on the Last Day."

With only the faintest regret, Sorelia returned the newest member of her family to his mother's arms. Even then, the newly-named Taric was silent, observing his parents with a grave solemnity. If she hadn't delved the infant herself, Sorelia would have worried that his lungs were underdeveloped, but her meager talent had found nothing amiss.

Perhaps, Sorelia thought as she withdrew from the couple's small adobe room within Shende Hold, young Taric had simply emerged from his mother's womb as stolid as Shae'en M'taal, a Stone Dog.

"But even a dog should bark around family," Sorilea grumbled as she stumped her way down the hallway of the Hold's ancient dwelling. "Stone faces that never settle or relax always crack and break, after all."

The hallway itself was built of mortared stones, the internal walls providing structure for the branching adobe residential rooms and storehouses. Tucked up under the first rise of the Dragonwall and built under the protective overhang of the cliffside, Shende Hold was always warm, even in the Threefold Land's bitterly cold nights. It was a quirk shared by the Jarra and the neighboring White Mountain Sept; both had built their Holds into the stone faces of the Dragonwall.

As she had grown older, Sorelia's ancient bones had begun to appreciate the year-round warmth of Shende Hold more and more; as a result, she had made a point to spend at least half of the year living in the hide tents used by the hunting parties.

The tents were common to all of the Aiel, though the eastern clans – Shaarad, Goshien, and Nakai – and the Tomanelle also sheltered under their earthen hogans. It was in those tents, maintained and handed down generation to generation, that the beating heart of Aiel culture thrived.

And it was that beating heart that had so recently crossed the Dragonwall, that had brought justice to the Treekillers. Four years ago, four clans had crossed the Dragonwall to pursue Laman wherever he would flee. They had pursued him through the snows of winter all the way to the Shining Walls themselves before they had hunted the coward down.

That justice, Sorelia knew, had not come without exacting its own price. The Taardad, the Shaarad, the Nakai, and the Reyn Clans had all earned much ji through their sacrifice. And yet, though they had earned much honor, so many spears had gone to spit in Sightblinder's eye in the process.

The two years following Laman's death had been hard in the Threefold Land. Even though the Chareen, her clan, had not ventured across the Dragonwall, fewer strong bodies meant fewer farmers to till the maize, reducing food supply across all of the clans. Raiding, always a constant between the Aiel clans, had reached a fever pitch. The Tomanelle raided the Shaarad incessantly, while the Shaido pressed aggressively into Taardad and Reyn holdings.

"The Threefold Land may test us and iron may sharpen iron," she pushed aside the curtain that was the door to her own abode in Shende Hold, "but we will need more babies, across all the clan… But I suppose I can wait to remind Ayesha of her duty; she has done her part for now."

And again, the oldest living Wise One's thoughts went to her youngest descendent, her greatdaughter's greatson. To his shock of sun-bright hair and his solemn expression, so ridiculous on a child only a day and an hour old. And to that gaze, which had seemed far older than a day and an hour.

When Taric had been handed to her, still in his swaddling clothes, she had expected to see the familiar indignant anger seemingly inherent to all newborns. Instead, his chubby cheeked face had been surprisingly somber, his eyes bright and darting for all that they could barely focus. Somehow, the infant had possessed the mien of an experienced warrior, familiarizing himself with his surroundings and scanning for danger.

Had a new thread been woven into the Pattern, Sorelia wondered as she tended to the bowl of goat stew with coarse maize bread left by her apprentice on the hearth, warmed by the sullen embers of her banked fire, or had an old thread been shuttled back across the loom?

Only time would tell. Sorelia only hoped that she would not wake from the dream before she had the chance to see what kind of man her descendent would prove himself to be.