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Chapter Text

The funny part—if there was anything funny about it—was that somehow, when the rain had stopped and the desert was still, when he was away from the adoring eyes of the Aiel, and the critical, suspicious burn of Egwene’s, and the broken sobs of Moiraine, he still wanted to go back to her.

It was pathetic.

It was pathetic and a complete failure, and Rand buried his head in his hands for what he imagined was the tenth time, and forced himself not to think about her.

Not to think of that fleeting moment when her eyes had lost their color, when he had called her a monster and taken her by surprise with the firmness—with how much he really meant—of the words, before anger and rage replaced the fear; it hadn't been fast enough for him not to see. 

Not to think about the injury Moiraine had caused her; not to resent Moiraine for hurting her, when that was exactly what she needed to do—when that was what he should have done. Not to think about where she was, if she was okay or if she had bled to death somewhere, alone and with no one to hold her, repeating his words on her mind as she died, while he was on the other side of the world, swallowed by sand and warriors who waited for him to do something he had no idea how to begin.

He had never been good at denying himself things when it came to her.

That thread still called, Rand quickly discovered, trying to drag him into the world of dreams.

For her domain.

Or perhaps, he had allowed himself to acknowledge, in the dark of his tent, where there was no one to judge him for his thoughts and desires, drag her into his dreams, as she had once accused him of doing.

He could still hear her voice whispering his name in the crook of his ear every time he closed his eyes to sleep. He could still hear her voice whispering his name in the crook of his ear every time he closed his eyes to sleep, feel the touch of her hands on his back every time he gripped the hilt of his sword, under Lan's silent gaze, like a caress running down his spine. He could still feel the weight of her words every time he met Egwene's eyes.

I want you, Rand.

Lies, he growled, ignoring the fact that he could feel Egwene’s eyes on him all too well; her eyes were always on him now, restless and wary from the first drop of rain, from the second he fought to push the power back inside himself. Lies and more lies, whispering words he wanted to hear in his ear like madness did in his mind, making promises she had no intention of keeping.

It seemed, Rand let out a wry smile, that he was destined for this. To surround himself with promises and prophecies that would not be fulfilled; prophecies he did not know how to fulfill. 

There was no one to teach him, he sighed.

Sammael had died before he could learn the least.

He had wondered if it had been her, taking back her own gift.

“You have been trying to force your way into Tel’aran’rhiod,” Bair murmured, her voice considerably strained, tinged with a respect that had increased the second he was recognized for what he was. Rand lifted his head from where he still had it cradled in his hands, more than aware of the way Egwene’s eyes narrowed to where he was, her suspicion growing even more so. “Trying to enter a dream where you are not welcome is a dangerous thing, Car’a’carn.”

He didn't try to deny it, playing with his fingers where they were, picking at the flesh with his nail.

“You don’t force a dream-dominating soul to share a dream without consequences, Rand.” She warned, firm and low; clear. “And if whoever you’re trying to find is strong enough to drive you out, I tend to think that those would be negative in your favor.”

“Who are you trying to find?” Moiraine asked, craning her head to look at him.

Her eyes were empty, Rand realized, hollow and tired and dull, living with the loss of something too great to overcome, and yet putting him above all else.

Even from mourning.

Rand didn’t answer, looking down at the sand beneath his feet, at his hands, shame suddenly flooding him. There was sand under his nails, he noticed for the first time. He had been digging in the ground during the night—he couldn’t remember why.

Maybe he was searching for answers, maybe he was just trying to sink everything he felt beneath the desert.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Egwene laughed, a choked, disbelieving, bitter sound. “We’re betting our asses on you, almost dying for you.” She growled, jumping to her feet and pointing her hand at Moiraine. “And you—” She laughed. “And you're risking your damn neck — your sacred, prophetized,  neck —, to dream with the woman who is trying to kill us?!”

“I’m not —”

“You are.” Egwene cut him off, pushing the words out so low and hoarse they were more like a growl. “You are!" She choked, her voice changing to a cold, disappointed lilt. “Be a man and at least admit it.”

“I just want to know if she’s alive!” Rand growled, biting his lips against himself as he realized how loud his own voice had sounded; how aggressive. It was harder to control it now, he had noticed from the moment he struggled to stop the power flowing from his hands, to cage it inside him again that day. That anger that seemed to be slowly building inside him, the fury. The madness, lurking in the walls of his stomach, talking with him, guiding him to a path he didn't want to go. “I—.” He rubbed the back of his neck, nervous and uncomfortable, restless. “I can’t just— I don’t know how to just abandon her all at once! I can't just — just erase her from my heart! It doesn't work like that, I’m not a machine, Egwene!”

“Oh, for Light's sake.” Egwene scoffed, one hand landing on her hip in disbelief. “You’re not abandoning her, Rand; you never had her.” She growled, drawing out the last words. “She abandoned the Light centuries ago; she doesn't belong to you! Can’t you just accept that?!” Egwene grunted, and Rand narrowed his eyes, his jaw clenching tightly. “Just because she looks like it, doesn’t mean she’s still human.”

"She is.” Rand replied without thinking, his chest suddenly swelling with something he didn’t want to name. He had become quite the hypocrite, he took a deep breath. Saying no to words he himself had spoken. Words he had said to her. “No one can be so far from the Light that they can never return, Egwene. If they have the chance.” He closed his eyes, tilted his head back. “If someone reaches out for them.”

“That’s a pretext, Rand. And you know it.” Egwene took a step forward, her face set in utter disbelief. “You want to lie to yourself?! Fine. But don’t you dare try to lie to me again. You don't care about that. You don't care about her coming back to the light.” She spat the words in that mocking tone. “You just want her. Want to feel what she offers you, even knowing that it is a lie. You're taking your chances while the rest of us fight to save the world.”

“I'm trying not to go insane!” He stared at her, his eyes hard, his voice cold. The expression on her face didn’t change; they were always fighting now, he remembered, enough that Egwene was no longer surprised by the cold tone in his voice. “I’m trying to save myself, to stay sane enough to be able to save the world, and I can’t do that with her voice disturbing me — haunting me — with her dying in my head all the time!”

“And who will save us?!” Egwene replied, her voice almost as cold as his. “Who will save us when you give up on us, on the world, to protect a ghost?”

Rand didn't need a mirror to know he had lost his color, his face turning pale and cold with the impact of her words.

“Who’s going to protect us, Rand, the next time you piss her off and she decides she’s had enough of this game?! Moiraine?” Egwene spat the words. “She nearly died last time, and we all know your precious Lanfear wasn’t even close to using her full strength. I can barely look her in the eye without being in that damned cell again; I’m surely not stupid enough to face her face when she’s not holding back so she can continue playing house with you. You?! ” She laughed, mocking. “I think you would let us die, one by one, but you wouldn’t have the courage — or the will — to touch a single hair on her head yourself!”

Rand did not respond.

He couldn't.

Egwene stood before him, her eyes blazing with anger and frustration, but he could no longer look at her. He could not look at anyone at that moment. He had no courage to do so, shame swallowing him alive. Only the sand beneath his feet, his nails dirty and broken from digging in vain. From trying so hard to bury what he knew could not be buried.

“Rand…” Moiraine spoke, her voice cracked and hoarse from screaming so much during the night, in the few hours of sleep she had.

He glanced at her sideways. It wasn't like before, when the hardness in her gaze served as an anchor. Now... there was only emptiness. As if she herself had lost some of the strength to believe that it was all worth it. The woman who had always known what to do now seemed... as lost as he was.

The sound was haunting them all now; the way she would start screaming and end up choking, waking up choking on her own cries, trying to breathe.

“You can’t… you can’t drag yourself to the bottom.” Moiraine lifted her chin, forcing an authority she no longer felt; a control she no longer had, over the world and over herself. “The world can’t lose you now. We’ve sacrificed enough. There is no much more left to sacrifice.”

He closed his eyes tightly.

“The world…” Rand laughed, a hoarse, mirthless sound. “And since when have I had any choice in what the world wants or needs?”

Silence.

The wind sliced ​​through the space, carrying fine grains of sand through the tight tent and settling in the corners of his eyes. Rand wiped them away furiously, as if the sting could undo what was trapped behind his lids: the memories, the sound of her voice, the warmth of her presence.

The damned love he couldn't put out, burning inside him like a furnace.

“Your arrogance will destroy us.” Egwene said coldly, turning her back on him. “But perhaps that’s what you want.”

The silence grew even thicker at her words. Rand kept his eyes on the sand, counting the grains, hyperaware of the way Bair was still watching him from a corner of the tent, the way Lan was silently assessing him all the time, a shadow in the corner.

“I think she’s still alive,” Rand murmured suddenly, his voice low, unsure of who he was talking to. “I…feel.” He whispered. “I suppose it’s an important thing to know. She’s probably mad as hell right now, if she is; and she can hold a grudge.” He took a deep breath, a half-hearted chuckle escaping his lips. “You always knew, didn’t you?” Rand continued, twisting the ring on his finger without realizing it. It had been a gift; an Aiel jewel for the one who had come to save and destroy them. He looked up at last, meeting the Aes Sedai’s eyes. “That I would end…that I couldn’t walk away. That’s why you tried to kill her yourself, even though you knew you weren’t strong enough. Because you know I can’t do it.”

Moiraine crossed her arms, looking at him for long seconds.

“No…” Moiraine replied, her voice surprisingly soft. “It’s not because I knew you couldn’t… it’s because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to.” She twisted her face into a grimace, as if she wanted to say more, but then she just let it out slowly through her nose, closing her eyes. “I fear the certainty of it now.”

Rand swallowed, looking up at the sky.

It was dark now, the moon half hidden behind the clouds.

“This woman you love.” Bair’s voice cut through the silence, not as an accusation but as a statement; as if it were as simple as air to acknowledge that he loved her. That he loved a forsaken. Rand clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to react. “She doesn’t want you in her dreams.”

Rand shivered slightly, the sand heavy beneath his feet.

“Tel’aran’rhiod is a mirror of the soul, a delicate dance between will and consent.” She continued, ignoring the way the words had hit his chest like a thud, a finger tracing the sand as she spoke. “When she refuses your presence, it is not a door locked in disdain, but a wall built to preserve something that time cannot erase—be it pride, or fear, or perhaps a truth that even you are not ready to face or she's not ready to show.” She paused, tracing a symbol softly in the sand. “If she does not allow you in, it may be because she is still struggling to keep herself from losing herself completely, or because she fears what you might bring back to her.” She looked up at him quickly. “Whatever the case, the wall she has built… it is so thick I can see it awake. And if this woman is Lanfear — the Lanfear —, you will not break this barrier, Car’a’carn, no matter how much time passes or how hard you try.”

Rand sighed, letting his head fall between his legs again, his elbows resting on his knees.

I want you, Rand.

“You say you want to know if she’s alive…” Lan said finally, his voice dripping with something between pity and sorrow. “But deep down, you’re more afraid of finding out that she is... Aren’t you?”

Rand stared at him, surprised by the precision of his words.

Lan gave him a half smile, without joy.

“Because if she’s alive… then one day you’ll have to face her. Not in dreams. Not in memories.” He touched his chest, marking the spot. “Here.”

Rand didn't answer. He couldn't.

He was right, and he hated that he was.

Lan moved slowly, approaching, his light hand landing on her shoulder.

“And if you don’t face her, Rand…the world will pay the price. Because her absence is throwing you off balance.” The swordsman murmured, calm and quiet, his voice free of judgment, though Rand could see the uneasiness in him as much as anyone else. “And you are the balance of the world.”

Rand let out a long, heavy breath; his knees were shaking, but he stood anyway.

“We have to go.” He stammered, to no one; to everyone. “We have other prophecies to fulfill.”

Moiraine nodded silently, but Rand didn’t pay much attention, looking once more, one last time, at the night sky covering the Aiel desert. It was time, he sighed. Even though she hadn’t said a word, Rand knew that the past seventeen weeks had been a torment for the Aes Sedai, forced to accompany him as he wandered among the Aiel people— his people — trying to put them together, while far away from there, far away from her , those who were hers perished.

Seventeen weeks, Rand sighed, had passed since he had made rain fall on the desert.

Seventeen weeks since the Amyrlin Seat died and unknowingly saved her love's life one last time by given her strength enough for her to wield a sword out of her own chest.

Seventeen weeks since he saw his love as she was for the first time.

Seventeen weeks, and he still woke up to a voice like hers whispering words he couldn’t hear, right at the curve of his ear. Slept with a voice like his own supplanting hers, murmuring that she was dead. That he would never see her again and should be glad for it, but that he wasn’t—because he was too naive, too stupid, too much of a coward to accept the truth — and that he would fail. 

It shouldn’t be this hard. Getting over her. He had much bigger problems to deal with than a broken heart. And yet, seventeen weeks trying to rip her out of his chest had only made him remember her more vividly, more intimately.

To remeber those moments he couldn’t tell what hurt more — thinking they were true, or thinking they were lies.

I want you, Rand.

Seventeen weeks, and the moon seemed as far away from him as she was, Rand blinked, and though he tried to drown the feeling, inside his chest, that string sang again, trying to pull her to itself.

He closed his eyes for a second, as if he could still that thread, stifle the silent call. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. Not here, not now, not with that thin, cutting tension wrapping around him like invisible blades, ready to tear apart everything that held him together—whatever was left of him.

When he opened his eyes, Egwene had returned, her hard gaze fixed on the dark horizon beyond the tent, where the dunes seemed to go on forever. Moiraine stood motionless, arms crossed, eyes closed, struggling to conserve strength she no longer had to lose.

Lan was the first to actually move, arranging the shawl around Moiraine’s shoulders in that same calm, collected way he always had, careful, though Rand noticed now—perhaps for the first time—the quiet exhaustion etched across his shoulders.

The burden was his, Rand knew, and yet, everyone there carried the weight.

It hurt, he realized, to feel wrong.

Ungrateful , struggling and dragging himself through the sand for grains of someone he had no right — no freedom — to love, while the whole world suffered because of his weakness.

“We leave at dawn,” Moiraine said finally, her voice low and controlled. She stood beside him, her hand light and quick in the crook of his elbow. “You will win this, Rand.” She murmured, low and soft, a comfort, an encouragement, and a demand. “You will win the war. I trust you with that, no matter what.”

Rand nodded, the movement almost imperceptible.

The moon, previously half hidden, now appeared brighter between the gaps in the clouds, casting a cold light over the desert sands and over him. The wind passed again, and Rand took a deep breath, like a distant whisper.

Slowly, he turned, walking away from the tent, his feet sinking into the soft sand with each step, while his heart—this, he realized now—seemed embedded in a soil he could not leave.

He wasn’t sure how long he walked aimlessly through the clear desert night until he finally allowed himself to stop; until finally, his body felt far enough away to allow itself to relax. The sky spread out above him, vast and indifferent, sudennly so full of stars it seemed impossible to count them, and yet, even surrounded by so much light, all Rand could feel was that darkness coiling inside him, growing, clawing, calling.

Talking.

Whispering words in a language he didn't know. Urging him to touch the power and discover what else he could rain down from the heavens. To discover where the limit of his power was.

If there was one.

Rand sighed, slowly lowering himself, kneeling on the cold sand, his fingers sinking without resistance into the soft surface, while his lost gaze searched, in vain, for anything beyond that emptiness.

Then, almost without realizing it, he whispered: “Lews Therin...”

But there was no answer.

Not this time.

Only silence.

Only night.

And that thread, thin and indestructible, that continued to vibrate, always tense, always stretched, between him and her.

Rand closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and for the first time that night, let exhaustion take over him completely; his body ached as if he had been fighting trolls and losing each time. He let himself fall back onto the sand, staring at the sky, the moon, the stars… and that absence that, despite everything, was still more present than anything else in the world; the shadow of a body beside him, strands of hair spread over his chest.

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” Rand whispered to nothing, to the desert, to the stars, or maybe directly to her—to Lanfear, or whatever was left of her. “You have to be.”

The wind blew in response, kicking up a gust of sand that he ignored, unmoving.

Before sleep took him, to a dreamless sleep again, before he could even stop himself, he felt again—soft, warm, and absolutely devastating—the echo of her voice, calling to him like a breath in his soul.

I want you, Rand…

~

There is a weave to travel, Rand knew.

Lanfear had whispered it to him at some point, on one of those nights when he closed his eyes next to a woman and dreamed of waking up next to another long before he actually fell asleep.

Something simple, easy to do.

The Aes Sedai of this age didn't knew how to weave it, having it beeen lost in the time along with others secrets, and as he traced his way back to Tar Valon, the thought had made him wonder how powerful she truly was.

How much knowledge she truly has, plots that died with the Age of Legends, that she knows like the back of her hand.

How many of them she created.

It was yet another question he would have no answer to, and Rand blinked, feeling the heat escaping from the horse beneath him. The desert was behind him, the path opening back to Tar Valon, and from where they stood he could see the great White Tower; Moiraine had stiffened completely on her horse at the first sight of it.

Her face came to mind automatically: stern, shrewd, with that stubborn gleam that never wavered. Dead. The words still seemed unreal to him. How could someone like Siuan Sanche just... cease to exist? 

How?  

It was obvious that his views weren’t on par with hers—mostly because he really didn’t like the prospect of being caged like an animal—but even when she’d plotted against him, Rand had known she’d been there, solid as stone, a force to be reckoned with. She’d even tried to stand up to Lanfear, which, while a poor decision and potentially humiliating, still spoke volumes about the kind of woman she was.

Powerful, firm.

Brave.

All that was left of Siuan Sanche now, he took a deep breath, was Moiraine.

Rand turned his head, watching as the woman in question rode a few paces ahead, straight in the saddle, her blue cloak swaying gently with the horse’s rhythm. She seemed unbreakable, as always, but he could clearly see the way she stiffened a little more with each step closer to the city.

He could see how thin she was, her collarbone slightly protruding.

How her hands trembled as she touched the Source, even for something as simple as boosting the journey.

He understood.

He wouldn't say a word, never , as he had no interest in hurting her further, or, Light help him, offending her in any way, but he understood.

He understood her grief, and he understood the fear .

Rand let out a slow breath, his eyes fixed on the shadow of the White Tower. He wouldn't set foot in that Tower any time soon. Egwene would go, and Moiraine too, probably, but he intended to hole up in his room wherever they were staying, and plan.  

He needed to go to Tear, Rand knew.

He needed to be ready for what would surely await him there.

He needed to find a way to learn something , for while the power within him threatened to consume him with every little use, there was little he knew how to do with it, and the more he let it run free, letting the Power work for both of them, the louder the whispers in his mind became. The more familiar he became that voice, low and hoarse and conscious, that murmured words he did not understand, in his head.

The more he wanted to hear them; to accept them as his own.

The streets of Tar Valon seemed narrower than he remembered, Rand noted, his feet dragging along the ground, having left his horse behind. 

It took him longer than he would have liked to realize that they weren’t, in fact, smaller; he had just gotten used to the vastness, the freedom, of the Aiel Waste. It made sense, he felt his lips curl into a thin smile, that Aviendha would always be a pain in the ass; it was disappointing to have to face the crowds and the mess, the noise, of Tar Valon after so long in the calm of the desert, the sand beneath his feet and the sun overhead.

“They’re waiting,” Moiraine murmured, jerking her chin toward the inn.

With Egwene learning how to walk in to Tel’aran’rhiod, communication had become much more efficient, and Rand had smiled when she had informed them several nights ago that Mat, Nynaeve, and Elayne were back in Tar Valon, waiting to figure out what to do next while trying to deal with their own problems. Though he wished there was no time to waste on anything other than what lay ahead, and Rand knew without having to ask too much from listening to Egwene speak that they had encountered their own problems while away.

Still, when he found them and saw them actually alive and well, part of him wanted to cry.

Sitting at one of the tables in the center of the tavern, Mat was leaning back in a chair, twirling a dagger between his fingers with his old carefree air—though his eyes betrayed the weariness and his shoulders betrayed the restlessness that was now familiar to them all.

“Look who decided to show up…” Mat lifted his head, a half smile dancing at the corner of his lips, and stuck the dagger in his boot. “No surprises this time?!”

Rand gave a short laugh.

“Are you okay?”  He asked, his voice hoarser than he would have liked.

“Alive, at least.” Mat shrugged. “Which, all things considered… is quite an accomplishment.” The smile gave way to a more serious expression. “You?”

Rand looked away, his hands clenching at his sides. Before he could respond, a familiar voice cut him off.

“Rand?”

He turned in time to see Nynaeve crossing the space between their table and what he assumed was the counter, followed by Elayne. The former’s gaze softened for a second, before taking on its usual hardness.

“You’re back.” It wasn’t a question, her lips curling into that familiar little smile, and Rand nodded, swallowing the sudden rush of emotion that gripped him when she didn’t let him finish before pulling him into a hug. “How was it? Are you okay?”

He was not okay.

Light, it's been so long since he was okay that Rand could barely remember the last time.

Nynaeve squinted at him when he didn’t respond, frowning, almost as if she could hear his thoughts, and Rand found himself dropping his eyes to the floor.

Pathetic, he muttered to himself.

As if he were still that boy from Two Rivers, waiting for a speech and direction from Wisdom and not the man he had become.

The man he needed to be.

“I’m fine,” he finally mumbled, but it seemed like such an obvious lie, even though he wanted to believe the words were true. He repeated them, hoping to make them real. “I’m fine.”

Nynaeve couldn't have looked less convinced if she tried, but she took a step back, accepting the words.

Rand suppressed the urge to thank her for it.

He thanked, however, quietly and quickly, when someone brought him hot soup and a piece of bread. The journey had taken its toll, and though they had encountered few problems along the way, his bones still ached and his hands were cold, his body clearly rejecting the change in climate. It was tiring, Rand sighed, the need to always be in a different place. He would soon have to leave Tar Valon again, to unravel another part of the prophecy.

He missed home, realized.

Missed the feeling of having a home to return to.

It had been a while since he had felt that way. The satisfaction that came at the end of a tiring day, when all you could think about was a hot bath and then lying in your own bed, in your own home, where things smelled like you and were exactly where you had left them and not stuffed into a travel bag or lost in the middle of the desert or destroyed in a collision on some random road.

He missed that room in Cairhien, Rand took a deep breath.

It was the last home he had ever had.

Someone was talking, he realized, noticing only when Mat lightly bumped his shoulder that he was completely lost in the conversation. Elayne, he realized, murmuring softly and carefully about what had happened in Tanchico. About what she couldn't understand.

“I don’t know.” He heard her continue to mumble. “I have this strange feeling that I’m missing something, something that—”

He didn't hear the rest, his eyes widening, his body stiffening slightly where he stood, his eyes locked on the shadow that stood in the doorway.

He couldn’t really see her, couldn’t see her face, with her half-hidden between two bodies, but still, his eyes locked on her, refusing to move. The dark cloak slid down her shoulders with a dangerous elegance, and his heart raced, missing a beat in the mess it had become, recognizing the movement—a movement, a posture that could only belong to one person, softness and danger and power rolled into a charming combination that seemed to charm him naturally and effortlessly.

It was the movement of her hair that made him drag his chair back slightly, falling long down her clear, defined back like a silky black waterfall, shining against the yellow light of the tavern before she pushed it over one shoulder, thin, white fingers showing and drawing his eyes, that ring on her fingers.

Rand abandoned his soup, standing up in one fell swoop, his knee knocking and rattling the table with the sudden speed with which he moved.

“Rand?” Mat asked, one hand flying to grab the dagger at his waist, the other touching him by the elbow. “You okay, mate?” He arched an eyebrow, exchanging a quick glance with Min, the woman sitting directly across from him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

For a moment, Rand blinked, the world around him seeming to go silent, the noises fading, the smell of hot soup forgotten. That heat was burning inside him again, familiar and warm, flooding his chest, a mixture of longing and desire, of anger and hope.

“Rand?” Moiraine asked, her hand moving in the air—still trembling, he saw; beside her, Lan had his hand on his sword. “What is it?”

Rand blinked, looking back at them for a second.

They were scared, he could tell.

Nynaeve was frowning, her expression hardened by that old instinct to protect them, but he could see the doubt shining in her eyes, the fear; Aviendha had already found a weapon — Light, sometimes he really wanted to know how she did those things—a fiery dagger gleaming in her hands. Even Elayne, who knew him little compared to the others, looked frightened, her lips pressed together, her hands resting firmly on the wooden tabletop, her eyes on him as if he were going to disappear.

Egwene stood still, he noticed, looking at him as if she could read him with a single glance—and perhaps she could, he almost laughed; she was the only one there who might.

Rand took a deep breath, looking away from the table without answering, back at the door. At her. He blinked, searching for her, the wonder fading as quickly as it had come, the warmth in his chest turning to a painful shadow, like pouring salt on a wound, when he realized he could no longer find her.

The space, which before seemed occupied by that inevitable presence, swallowing up the rest, forcing him to find it without having to do nothing, just attracting him with her mere presence, was empty.

No cloak, no unmistakable silhouette, no hint of her.

She was gone.

Or maybe she had never been there, his mind whispered secretly.

Rand took a deep breath, but the air seemed to catch in his throat.

Maybe she had never been there, he thought, tense with the implications of the thought.

Maybe it was just another one of his own mind's tricks...

His chest felt heavy as if he had swallowed desert rocks, Rand made a noise, trying to blink.

“Mate?” Mat asked, his voice cutting through the space like a short, blunt blade. “Rand? Say something, man, before someone has a fit.”

“Sorry,” Rand muttered, trying to regain his composure. He let his fingers slide slowly over the worn wood of the table, feeling the grooves beneath his skin, as if that might bring him back to the present.

Hia voice sounded distant, he realized.

Almost as if it were separate from his body.

“Sorry,” he repeated, finally turning his attention fully back to the table. “I just… thought I saw someone.”

His eyes flicked to the door again, without his command, into the darkness, the emptiness. Egwene narrowed her gaze where she stood, leaning forward slightly, her brown eyes as sharp as a blade, studying him.

“Who?” 

Rand pressed his lips together, taking a deep breath.

The question hung in the air, but he didn't answer.

She already knew the answer.

“It doesn’t matter.” His voice sounded hoarse, brittle, when he finally spoke, but he forced a neutral expression. “It was... no one.”

“No one?!” Egwene arched an eyebrow slightly, her chin raised in a posture he knew all too well—a silent warning, a judgment already made.

“Just…” Rand whispered. “A figure.”

“Rand.” His name sounded like an accusation. “You thought it was her.” Her voice cut through the space between them with precision, cold, without a trace of doubt. It wasn’t a question. Rand swallowed, but Egwene didn’t wait for an answer; didn’t wait for him to deny it. “Lanfear.” She finished, her voice firm, as if spitting out the name were a necessity, or perhaps a punishment; as if he had to hear to understand the seriousness of what he did so automatically. “You thought it was her.”

Rand took a deep breath; closed his eyes for a second, his chest sinking as if someone had knocked the air out of him or else forced it in all at once until he could no longer bear the pressure. When he opened them, Egwene was still there, unmoved, her intense brown eyes fixed on him.

“Didn't you?”

Rand took a deep breath, running his hand over his face, but it was no use: there was no mask that could hide it.

It seemed like he couldn't hide anything about her anymore, his heart exposed on his face for anyone to see.

“Yes.” The word came out as a sigh, weaker than he would have liked.

She laughed, a mocking, disgusted sound, and Mat looked from one to the other in confusion, frowning. Rand saw briefly the way Nynaeve exchanged a quick glance with Elayne, a silent question to which the redhead had no answer, herself turning to Aviendha, mirroring the look she had received.

“Do you have any idea how you just looked?! How terrifying it was to watch you just — Rand, you stopped breathing .” Egwene leaned a little closer across the table, closing the distance, her voice a whisper that still seemed to fill the room. She looked scared, Rand realized; even hidden beneath the anger, he could see a thread of fear, of concern. “Looking like — ”

“I know what I looked like!” His voice boomed, sudden and thick, like hurt , Rand realized, and Egwene took a startled step back, her eyes widening slightly, her mouth snapping shut. “I know what I looked like.” He repeated it, quieter, more measured, the words shaking, like they were stones he had to shove down his throat. “It’s not—It was just a moment.” He took a deep breath, forced the words out. “Just a second; it doesn’t matter.”

“Uh… Not to intrude on what’s clearly something else.” Mat muttered, slamming his mug down on the table in a movement that failed to seem lighthearted. “But if you just saw a Forsaken, shouldn’t we be getting the hell out of here?! You know,” he raised an eyebrow. “Since they want to kill you and all.”

"It’s complicated."

Matt raised his other eyebrow. 

For a second, it was curiosity that Rand saw flash in his eyes, before slowly, the curiosity melted into something else. Something darker. 

Suspicious.

Almost, Rand sighed, his eyes still darting to the door, even though he knew—he knew — that he wouldn't find her there, knowing.

Another time, he decided.

When it was just him and Matt and he didn't have to explain to a whole table why he was still in love with a woman who wanted to kill them.

“But yeah.” He agreed, pulling his chair back so he could sit down. “We probably should.”

The soup had gone cold, Rand realized, the bowl no longer warming his hands as he gripped it with slightly trembling fingers. The silence around the table made the soup taste like sand, as if he were back in Rhuidean, swallowing sand and stumbling over his own feet, trying to get where he needed to go, to take another step toward his destination. He could feel the eyes, the looks , standing over him, the root of that distrust that made his chest tighten, growing a little more until he could hear the question that no one had the courage to ask.

He didn't need to hear the words to know they were thinking it.

If it had already started.

If he was already... leaving.

If the madness was already too great in his mind to be contained.

For the past month, Rand had spent more time than he would have liked trying to figure out the answer to that question.

He wasn’t crazy.

Not yet .

But… he could almost feel it, he took a deep breath, unwinding inside him. Something slowly creeping into his mind, filling it with suggestions he would never have thought of on his own. Actions he would never consciously do, but which had caught his hand moving to do so, before he came to his senses and forced it close to his body again.

A black spot at the corner of his eyes; a body he didn't know, but that spoke to him, every day and every night.

“Fine.” Mat muttered, snapping his fingers and leaning back in his chair, as if trying to dispel the suffocating cloud hanging over everyone. He was , Rand knew. Even though he himself was burdened with questions of his own that he had no answers for. “If no one is going to say it, I will: I hate this fucking town.” He sighed. “Can we just get the hell out of here?!”

“Where do we go now?” Aviendha asked, finally breaking the dangerous and slightly worried silence she had assumed since sitting at the table, her voice clipped.

Waiting for direction, willing to follow him — to follow the Car'a'carn, Rand reshaped his own thoughts—wherever he went; preparing to guide, advise, and support him, helping him fulfill his destiny to unite the Aiel tribes and then lead them into the war that Rand could already hear knocking at the door. 

He could already feel the lump in his throat.

The knowledge made the weight triple on his shoulders, and Rand let out a slow breath.

“To Tear.”

The word sounded heavy, like a sentence.

Moiraine looked up immediately, as if she had known he would say this, as if she had always known. 

And maybe she did.

He didn't really have a choice, did he?

“Are you sure?” Se asked, her hand slowly closing over the tabletop.

“No.” He took a deep breath. He didn’t hide the truth. “But I have never been.”

His hand tightened around the bowl.

The half-cold soup tasted like the madness in his mind: bitter and inescapable, choking him from the inside out until he couldn't breathe, until his stomach was churning, threatening to bring up what he hadn't even tasted yet.

Rand took his eyes off the door and swallowed everything down anyway.

 ~

Rand was dreaming.

A dream of his own.

A memory.

It had to be, for her hair tickled the curve of his neck, her body curled into his arm, her hand resting against his chest, right where his heart beat, making his chest rise and fall. Golden light filtered through the bedroom’s plain window, and he knew that if he opened his eyes, he would find the sun glinting on her hair, the scent of wet earth and wildflowers and something he couldn’t yet name, but that was hers, entering his nostrils as she shifted slightly in the bed, pressing herself closer to him, her right leg resting on his.

Rand was dreaming.

And it would be a blessing if he continued like that.

Still, he knew that he was dreaming, and he knew, the second the knowledge dawned on him, as it had every night before that, that it was over.

His arm tightened around her anyway, automatically, trying to hold her against him, even as her hand, so light, so warm against his chest, stiffened, her body, once relaxed and wrapped around his, tensing, soft skin turning cold, hard, like dry wood about to snap, but he knew —as he had learned the first time— that it was useless.

It was useless and yet, Rand hoped that this time would be different .

It wasn’t.

She started herself out and away from him, disappearing in a sudden, violent movement, as if she were freeing herself from bonds, as if the simple act of being there, of him daring to dream of her, of remembering that memory in his dreams, was an affront; as if it were below her. He felt the sudden vacuum, as he felt it every time, her scent, so intricate to this moment, to him, disappearing all at once, without transition, as if the air had been sucked out of the world; as if she sucked it out of the world with her , ripping the golden light that bathed the room along with her, until he was lying in a cold, empty bed, the room dark and silent.

“Lanfear!” Rand called, his voice reverberating in the space as he bolted upright in the bed, his heart hammering in his chest, the mind and power within him making him aware that he had been dragged into Tel’aran’rhiod once again.

Her name echoed loudly in the silent room, falling on his ears and his alone.

Rand sighed, pulling his legs up, his knees pressed to his chest as his head fell between his legs. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths, waiting—hoping—for her scent, the heat of her body, any trace of her, to return.

Nothing.

She faded away the second he tried to bring her with him; the second he realized he was dreaming, his consciousness rising in the dream, trying to call her whever she was.

In the second that he entered Tel'aran'rhiod, refusing him before he even had a chance to speak.

For a moment, he could almost drag her, could almos bring her there.

The One Power crawled out from within him on its own, searching for her, grabbing her essence, and a spark burned in the void of her presence, a fragment of something familiar. It was only a moment, and he never got far before he felt the air shift, before he hit an impenetrable wall, a blockade he couldn’t break through no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he let the One Power leak out of him.

It was true what was said about her, Rand had discovered.

What had been born in the Age of Legends and remained in her legend: there was no one — and there never would be, he would have bet his own sword — who could defeat her in Tel'aran'rhiod.

Not even the Dragon Reborn.

Rand blinked, feeling the bed beneath his body.

He should wake up.

He should go back to his bed at that new inn, or at least find something else to dream about.

But it was easier there, he sighed, turning over in bed.

It was easier to sleep there, where he could close his eyes and pretend she hadn't disappeared, where he could pretend they were other people; just two people in a room in a simple inn in Cairhien, lying on a bed that wasn't soft enough for her tastes, but it didn't really matter because she slept more on top of him than on the mattress.

A life too simple for both of them, but a life where he could close his eyes and sleep and dream.  

He should get up from this cold bed, he knew, from this inn in Cairhien that existed only inside his mind. But his eyes felt heavy, and he let himself lie there, again and again, every day, sinking into a sleep that was not sleep, a space where the pain thinned and curled around him.

There, in that silent room, where he was still the man who loved Lanfear.

Where he still could be the man who loved Lanfear, without having to worry about how monstrous she was.

It was cruel, Rand took a deep breath, pressing his nose against the pillow.

It was cruel to keep doing this to himself, because that bed that wasn’t as soft as the one her body actually lay on, and those sheets that didn’t smell of anything —that didn’t smell like her, no matter how hard he tried to pretend they did. He could never get the scent right —he couldn’t tell what that last thing she smelled was; couldn’t replicate the scent—, he could never get the position her body assumed when hers was pressed against him risht — were all he had.

A lie.

A lie that sang him to sleep every night, lulling him to sleep again.

A lie that stitched up the wound itself, reopening it before the last stitch was even done.

It was easier to sleep there.

But he wouldn't sleep at all.

Couldn’t, Rand almost laughed, turning onto his side, pulling the pillow closer, burying his face in it as if he could, by the force of the gesture, tear away some vestige of her that lingered there—the warmth, the smell, anything.

His fingers closed over the sheet, gripping the rough fabric, pulling it up to his chest, in the exact position he used to hold her.

He could already see the process now.

What it would took for him to sleep in the dream world.

He took a deep breath, once, twice, until his breathing slowed.

His eyelids grew heavy and he closed his eyes, aware that that space—that bed, that room, that life, the lie—was slowly beginning to lose shape, as it always did when sleep overtook him, piercing the fog of his desires, his consciousness awakened, and he fell asleep.

Rand frowned, resisting the insinuating numbness for a second; he sank a little lower, curling his legs, trying to hold on to the mattress that was giving way beneath him.

But it was late and he was already asleep.

The room shivered slightly around him, as if a breeze was blowing through the closed cracks in the windows.

The sheet under his hand felt smooth, cold.

The wood of the bed hardened, the texture changing without warning beneath his skin, the mattress becoming infinitely better.

And then, finally, the pillow disappeared from under his head.

Rand sucked in a sharp breath, and opened his eyes—the inn’s ceiling above him, the dry smell of polished wood, the distant creak of footsteps in the hallway, the air of Tar Valon. Sunlight streaming through the plain, expensive white curtains. The sheet was much heavier than the one in his dreams, Rand recognized, rough in a different way, covering his crooked leg, his hand opened over the empty space beside it.

The place that it was hers.

The lie never lasted, Rand knew; the room always vanished the second he fell asleep.

It was, after all, impossible to remain in Tel'aran'rhiod without a waking conscience.

Back in the real world then, he sighed, keeping his eyes open.

To the world where he sleeps alone, daydreaming of a past he cannot touch and waking up with his head resting on a wet pillow, but has no right to cry.

Chapter Text

There were no funeral for the Amyrlin throne.

She had died without honor, Rand had heard, leaning against a pillar while Leane Sharif confided in hushed tones the extent of her betrayal; without honor and without the right to a funeral worthy of who she was, accused of helping those she had given her life to defeat, without the right to defend herself and alone .

Moiraine hadn't shed a tear.

She had buried them in the Waste, Rand knew.

Buried beneath the dunes, as she had buried it in life, so deeply held that he had only learned the full extent of it when Lan had carried her back to Alcair Dal, pressed against his chest, murmuring her name and crying like a child. Egwene had reluctantly confided the extent of a dream they had shared, and though part of him found it invasive and uncomfortable, he knew better than to say the words, aware of what she had seen in his dream.

He hadn't known quite what to expect, but when Moiraine's jaw clenched, her face turning hard as stone, he knew enough to know that she would continue.

That they would continue until the job was done.

Until she could finally cry.

“We need to go. Now.” She murmured, pacing back and forth, her hand clenched tightly against the fabric of her dress. “We’ve been here long enough, and with Elaida on the throne, it’s not safe for you, Rand.” She ran her hands through her hair in a nervous gesture. As nervous as she would have let on if it weren’t for her hands shaking as she channeled. “She’ll try to imprison you.”

It was no surprise, but still, Rand stiffened where he stood.

“Someone has to stay,” Egwene murmured, lifting her face from where it was half hidden between her spread legs. “If the Amyrlin Seat is in the hands of someone we cannot trust, someone needs to stay behind. You need to know what’s going on here; you need someone to tell you what to expect.” She blinked, her eyes flicking to him briefly before landing on Moiraine. “And I’m the only one who knows how to navigate in Tel’aran’rhiod.”

“You can’t stay here alone,” Rand murmured, ignoring the way her eyes slowly narrowed. “Egwene…”

“I can take care of myself, Rand.” She cut him off, lifting her chin, that defiant glint in her eyes. Her voice was soft when she spoke, though, with no pretense of attack. “You have more serious problems to deal with. Besides, Moiraine will be dead sooner than we think if she sets foot in that tower.” Where she stood, still pacing, Moiraine didn’t contradict her, which was answer enough. “I’m an Aes Sedai, by all means. She’ll want me here so she can try to manipulate me against you. And…” She took a deep breath, blinking slowly, as if considering her own words. “You were right, about my ambition. I do want more.”

“What about you two?” Moiraine asked, before Rand could say anything, turning to where Nynaeve and Elayne stood. “Where will you go?”

“We still have a mission,” Elayne murmured, straightening her shoulders, her voice sounding firm. “The Amyrlin Seat has given us an order: to find the Domination Bands.” The redhead blinked, turning to him. “Something happened in Tanchico. Something we can’t explain. And until I find out what it was, until I fulfill the order I was given, I will not set foot in that tower.” She turned to Nynaeve quickly, a silent question to which the brunette nodded in agreement. “But I need to get back to Andor first. I should have gone already but I wanted to wait for —” She blinked, slowly, looking at him for a quick second before glancing away. “I wanted to be sure that nothing had gone wrong before coming back. Just in case.”

She had spent a few weeks there, Rand remembered, before returning to Tar Valon to meet them. Had told them the night before, as they sprawled across the floor in the inn Moiraine had booked for them — deliberately ignoring the elephant in the room — that there was something wrong in the halls of Caemlyn.

Something she couldn’t explain, but whose presence gathered at the nape of her neck every time she stepped into the throne hall.

“To Andor, then,” Moiraine said, her eyes flicking between Lan and him and then finding Leane’s. “Will you stay with her?” She jerked her chin toward Egwene. “She’ll need support when politics come to a head. Someone to watch her back.”

Leane’s response was to tighten her grip on her staff, her head nodding in silent agreement. Rand tried not to see the way she blinked rapidly, trying not to think of the last person whose back she’d protected; he saw it anyway, and knew, when Moiraine’s softening went for a split second, that she wasn’t the only one.

“I’ll stay too.” Min muttered, casting a quick glance at Mat before continuing. “I’m more useful here.”

“We can take a boat,” Elayne murmured, searching his eyes for silent acceptance. “With the Sea People; they’re…” She blinked rapidly. “ Fast.”

It wasn't the delay that worried him on the journey to Tear, but Rand found himself agreeing anyway. 

His hands had gripped the few things he would take with him—resting at the foot of an armchair, already packed—firmly; he had learned to travel light long before his arms were marked, but ironically the more time passed, the more he became entangled in the search for the fulfillment of the prophecy, of his destiny, the more he achieved, and the less things he owned.

Yet when he opened his eyes at the prow of the ship, and watched silently as the Sea Folk wove the power—after a grueling conversation in which he swore, on his own behalf and the dragon’s, that neither he nor any of those with him would share what they saw—one of the women who does it, teaching Nynaeve how in whispers while Elayne watched from a corner, her elbow held discreetly by Aviendha’s hand, he wished he could carry something else with him.

Somebody. 

Beside him, he knew Mat knew exactly what he was looking for as he let his eyes wander into the shadow of Cairhien, the River Erinin bringing them close enough to the city that he could see the outlines of houses, of the harbor.

“Still complicated?” he asked, his fingers quickly tracing his neck before he realized he was doing it again and let his hand fall to the wood of the ship; he had been keeping his neck hidden, covered by a dark scarf, but Rand had seen the white line of a scar for a second before he hid it again.

Rand snorted, stifling a laugh before looking up at the sky.

“Try more complicated.”

Mat didn’t answer, his eyes watching the movement of the water; he was quieter now, Rand had noticed. The ancient tongue was gone from his lips, but so, it seemed, was some of the sparkle that had been common in his eyes.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep that promise.” Rand whispered, the words cutting through his throat, dragging themselves up and down until they came out through his lips, heavy and stained with his own blood. “It seems that I have found yet another price for these.” He whispered, stretching his arms out in front of him, the dragons tattooed on his arms glinting briefly in the light. “I can’t love that inn anymore, Mat. Have to tear it away from me.”

Mat didn’t answer, just cocked his head, as if listening for something beyond the sound of the water against the hull; as if he knew what Rand didn’t have the courage to say. The wind blew harder, pushing the ship along with a long moan, and it seemed fitting, Rand almost smiled, that even the world around him knew what he had left behind and kept wanting to return, propelling him away before he had time to look too long.

He watched anyway, his eyes threatening to burn, watching what he could as Elayne and Nynaeve prepared to step off the boat and set off alone across the distance between Cairhien and Caemlyn. 

Rand locked his feet on the wood beneath them, refusing to move, to come any closer to that port.

“Will you?” Mat answered finally, without looking at him, his hand sliding along the edge of the wood. “ Can you?”

Rand closed his eyes to keep from answering.

The smell of the water and the chants of the Sea People faded into the distance, mingling with the steady sound of the wind and the way Aviendha murmured something softly to Elayne; all that sound, Rand took a deep breath, and it still seemed distant, muffled by the drumming of his own heart, of the blood pulsing through his veins.

He could feel Lan’s eyes on him from a distance as he watched him, silent, his eyes fixed on his back. He hadn’t strayed far from Moiraine since Alcair Dal, standing beside the Aes Sedai as if holding her, even when she didn’t say a word or ask for it, and Rand wondered—more than once—what that would feel like.

Having someone you can count on at all times, no matter what.

I want you, Rand.

“I will,” Rand finally murmured, when the words no longer seemed to shake. It still sounded too false to be true, and he added words that said more than they really were, but the sound was already lost in the sound of the wind and the water, taking him away from the lie. “I have to.”

~

“So, let’s start with the most important thing.” Mat slammed his mug down on the table, his eyes shining. “How pretty is this Selene ?”

It's easy to talk about her that way; as if she were just a woman.

As if he could really have her.

So, so easy and the answer comes so easily, so naturally, that Rand barely realizes he's speaking until he's halfway through the sentence, until Mat raises an eyebrow.

“The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He heard, his own voice echoing off the small table, blending into the noise around them, but still loud enough, clear enough for them to understand. “In this life and any other.”

Perrin raised an eyebrow, matching the one already raised by the man beside him, the mug stopping in midair, not quite reaching his mouth, and Rand felt his cheeks burn at the look. 

With the surprise he could see in those golden eyes.

Not with what he had said exactly, but with how it had been spoken.

Light, he was so lost.

“She has blue eyes.” He grumbled when the two men didn’t move, staring at him silently, practically shouting a silent order for him to continue. “Like, really blue; it looks like she'll eat you alive when she's angry, they shine so bright. Tall, long black hair, pretty smile." He hesitated, the memory of her invading his thoughts with an intensity that left him breathless for a second. "Soft when she wants to be, but daring most of the time—and uh,” He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Little freckles scattered across her face; she hates those, but it’s actually really cute.” He shrugged, coughing when he saw the way Mat lost his smile for a second, his brow furrowing slightly before Perrin clapped his arm on the shoulder, and he let out an amused laugh, urging him on. “I don’t know, mate, she’s just…gorgeous.” 

“And how exactly did you manage to win over this beautiful, gorgeous ,” Mat joked, quirking his eyebrow, mocking his words, though there was nothing but that old camaraderie in the sound, “presumably older, woman?!” Rand suppressed the urge to laugh. That part was an understatement. “Did you wiggle your lamb-like eyes at her, and she was smitten the first time she saw you?”

Rand snorted.

“Well, actually, she cursed at me and told me to go inside and take a shower or stop stinking on her doorstep the first time we met.” He laughed, cocking his head slightly to the side; his cheeks felt oddly warm. “She’s bossy. In a good way.” He snorted. “More stubborn than the three of us put together, too, and absolutely unable to accept anything other than what she decides she wants.”

Mat raised a cheeky eyebrow.

“And did she know what she was doing?”

“Mat, I think she invented what she was doing.” Rand laughed, the sound echoing loudly around the table. “I didn’t even know someone could do some of the things she did.” His cheeks burned, and Rand rubbed his face with his hand in an attempt to appear less affected than he really was. “Everything with her is—I don’t know, it’s just…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Like finding a part of myself. Some lost part I didn’t know I’ve lost.”

Perrin frowned, studying him.

“That was strangely poetic for you.”

“Oh, come on, give him a break.” Mat snorted, throwing a piece of bread at him. “He’s in love .”

Rand rolled his eyes.

“I'm not in love.”

“Oh, no?!” Mat laughed, crossing his arms. “Do you remember the first time you and Egwene made out behind some random tree, and you came back and told us like she had sucked you to death?! It seems like a joke compared to how you look right now.” He snorted, raising a mocking eyebrow at the way Rand looked down at the table, his cheeks burning as Perrin burst out laughing. “I thought it was a fling, but of course you went and fell in love. You need to learn how to have sex without melting, man.”

Rand grunted, an indignant sort of noise.

“I am not melted .”

Perrin laughed, low and hoarse.

“Dude, you are.” Rand opened his mouth to protest, but Perrin stopped him with a careless wave of his hand. “It’s okay, Rand. You should enjoy it.” He smiled, soft and light. “I know things are… harder for you.” He cocked his head to the side, as if weighing the words he’d said. “If you’ve found someone, even with all this… enjoy it.”

Rand didn’t answer, looking down at his hands; those golden eyes seemed to see everything now. It was hard to look him in the eye without feeling that Perrin could see inside him; see what he was trying so hard to hide.

“Devil’s beard, Rand, you’ve finally outdone Egwene! Only took you years.” Mat was already pounding the table in triumph before he knew what to say. “When do we get to meet this beauty?”

Rand tried not to show the way the question killed any amusement in the conversation; he gripped the rim of his mug so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He wanted to laugh, as he always did at times like this, but he couldn’t; instead, he took a deep breath, and the smile that played on his lips was too fragile, too forced, for him to believe it would fool either of them, not even if they were drunk enough to fall over.

“She’s… not the kind of person you just introduce yourself to.” His voice was low, too husky, and Rand ran his fingers along the rim of his mug, swirling it without realizing it. “It’s… complicated.”

Complicated was an understatement for what they were, he held back a sigh.

Mat raised an eyebrow at him.

"Married?"

“What?! No!” Rand looked up at him, a laugh escaping his lips. “Light, Mat, no!”

“What?!” Mat grumbled, spreading his hands at his sides, almost exasperated, defending himself. “Could be.”

“Complicated doesn’t mean married!” Rand protested, laughing, half indignantly, half amusedly. “It just means… complicated.” He paused, still laughing. “She’s not married. She’s just…”

The words were lost in the air before he could catch them again, too tangled in his throat to come out whole.

“Complicated.” Mat supplied, leaning across the table, resting his elbow and chin on his hand, his eyes shining; he spread his lips into that mischievous grin. “But a good complicated, right?”

Rand pondered for a second before answering.

“Yes, a good complicated.” He murmured finally, testing the words. He snorted, then raised the mug to his lips, half intending to hide his smile. “Best complicated of my entirely life.”

And it was strange, and yet not at the same time, that he wanted to say more.

Wanted to tell them how sometimes, when she was tired in the late afternoon, she would stretch her feet out on his lap and make the most adorable sounds before falling asleep, half-curled up on the corner of the couch she had decided to put in his room the first time she had slept there. How when she smiled at him, it felt like she was tracing his spine with her tongue, sending shivers down his spine from head to toe.

He wanted to confess that sometimes he woke up on her chest and not the other way around, with her hand resting on the back of his neck, and she pressed her lips against his low hair tenderly before he reached up and kissed her on the lips, and it felt safe , and on those nights, he swallowed the words he wanted to say to her and told himself that it was enough to sing them with his lips on her skin.

 Wanted to say that she broke his heart and that it was still broken and hurt and wounded.

The words he managed to say were different, spoken quietly, almost like a secret.

“She… makes me forget who I am.”

“Damn it, Rand.” Mat sighed, running his over his face. “You do make things complicated, don’t you?!”

“Is this good…” Perrin tilted his head, golden eyes steady on him. “Or bad?”

Rand opened his mouth, but couldn't respond.

Because the truth was, he didn't know either.

Sometimes when he was with her, he felt free, light in a way he hadn’t felt since the moment he’d first laid eyes on that blue cloak on a cold night in Two Rivers. As if he could be just Rand.

Just a man, with no destiny, no prophecy, no sword.

But the other times… What he had learned… What she was.

“Yeah…” He shrugged, looking away. “Yeah.”

Perrin nodded slowly, as if he understood.

Maybe he really did understand.

Maybe he didn’t need words. 

Or maybe, he sighed, maybe they saw straight to what he hadn’t yet learn to hide. Maybe they knew he was desperate to talk about her, to let anyone besides him know what it was curled up around his heart — to share the burden — but didn’t know what words to say.

“Rand al’Thor… the unluckiest and luckiest man in the world at the same time.” Mat grumbled, shaking his head, taking a sip of his wine. “We take our eyes off you once and next thing we know you’ll be married, living in a cabin in the middle of the woods with that Selene girl and a bunch of kids running around.”

Rand laughed, for real this time, but he could still feel the bitterness in his own laughter.

“I wouldn’t find a cabin good enough for her in a million years.” He snorted, adding, “She’s not the type to settle down in a cabin anyway.”

“And you are?” Perrin asked, his voice calm, steady.

Rand looked at him, his golden eyes glowing in the dim light of the inn, and not for the first time that night, he didn’t really know what to say.

Because, by the Light, he didn't know.

He didn't know who he was anymore. Didn't know what he wanted. All he knew was that there were voices in his head, all around him, everywhere he went, singing songs of prophecy and dragons and shadows and promises, and they never stopped.

Light, how he wished they would just stop .

“I don’t know.” The answer was sincere, raw. “I think haven had time enough to learn.”

Mat raised his mug in a silent toast; tense and true, like the words he found himself speaking between one thing and another, a language neither of them could understand.

“Welcome to the club.”

Rand smiled, and for a moment, that was all it was—three friends, a worn wooden table, cheap wine, and life outside waiting, but still far enough away to be forgotten.

For a moment.

“Does she know who you are?” Perrin asked, when Rand thought the subject was over, his voice so low it was almost lost over the creaking of chairs and the clanging of mugs.

Rand looked away, staring at the flickering flame of the candle between them, placed on the table by one of the innkeepers; it was growing dark, he realized, afternoon giving way to night. Wax dripped slowly down the side, as slowly as he wished time would at that moment.

Just so he wouldn’t have to answer.

“She… knows some things.” His hand tightened on the mug again, the knuckles hard and white as stone. He lied. “Not everything.”

“And you trust her?” Perrin’s question wasn’t a provocation.

 It was honest. Direct. Like a direct blow, but without the intention to hurt.

It would have hurt less if he had known exactly what he was asking.

If the question had been asked to hurt.

Rand bit the inside of his cheek, a small, manageable pain compared to the throbbing in his chest. He didn’t answer right away, because the truest answer—the one he didn’t even want to form in his mind—was “yes.”

The words came out more fragile than he would have liked.

“I… want to.”

Mat let out a low whistle, leaning back, crossing his arms.

“Want to… But you don’t.”

Rand let out a hollow laugh, rubbing his hand across his face, further messing up his already disheveled hair.

“It’s complicated, remember?”

Perrin let out a sigh that was almost a laugh, but sad, understanding.

“And you fell in love with her even so.”

Rand looked at him, and the pain he had been trying to hide was reflected, raw, in his golden eyes. He had never admitted it out loud to anyone, he realized. The closest he had come was to her, the night everything changed.

He took a deep breath, gathering courage.

“I did.” He tested the words; repeated them again, low and soft, true and coming from so deep inside him that he himself could not see the depth. A whisper. “I did.”

For a second, Rand thought the silence would swallow him. That the weight of what he was saying would take its toll, that the walls would buckle around him, swallowing him, killing him, destroying him. Erasing him, until he had erased her from within himself.

It didn't.

For a second, although, no one spoke. 

There were no jokes, no crooked smiles. Just three boys who were no more boys, yet no men, sitting around a table, hiding their wounds as they tried to look okay, pretending not to recognize the fear that was hidden beneath each other's eyes.

Trying to pretend that things were still the same and that three friends were enough to hold the weight on each other's shoulders and conquer the world; conquer death.

And then Mat broke the silence, throwing another piece of bread at Rand.

“For fuck’s sake, Rand, you have a type, you know?” He snorted. “Mysterious, complicated, probably dangerous.”

Rand couldn't help the laugh that escaped. Maybe because it was too real, and it hurt less to laugh than to admit that Mat, for once, was absolutely right.

“Maybe I just don’t know how to do it differently.”

“Ah, that, we all knew.” Mat raised his mug in a mock toast, and Perrin followed suit, raising an eyebrow at him in silent demand. Rand raised his own mug, hesitated for a second, then raised it the rest of the way as well. “To the perils of a beautiful woman.” He smiled. “And to never forget what made her yours.”

The wine burned in his throat, but Rand welcomed it, letting it course through his veins as if it were made of blood. 

Trying to remember that he was still alive and could still feel.

“You’re not dead yet, Rand,” Perrin murmured as he set down his mug, as if he knew exactly what he was thinking, raising a hand to slam it, a closed fist, against his wrist, losing his smile to take on that soft, serious lilt. “It’s not a crime to live.”

The words took his breath away, the sincerity in his voice, and Rand blinked for a second or two, trying to regain it. Perrin smiled at him, thin and simple, knowing, and Rand swallowed the sudden urge to hug him as if they were still children.

He murmured instead, finally, a small smile forming on his lips. 

Sincere, this time.

“I’ll tell you what,” Rand began, looking at them. “If we’re not dead in a few days… if we survive this… if we all live...” He gripped the rim of his mug, feeling the weight of the words— choosing the words carefully, selecting them in the only way he could be able to say them — before continuing, more quietly, almost a shared secret, but saying them anyway. “I promise I’ll introduce you two to her.”

~

Tear smelled of oil, salt, and water.

After two and a half weeks on a boat, Rand had uttered a prayer when he finally set foot on land. 

Any and all satisfaction had melted from his face the second he laid eyes on the city.

It took little to notice the poverty.

The unpaved streets alone were a frustration, and although it wasn't raining when they descended through the porch, Rand couldn't help but notice the way the mud spread throughout the city. He also couldn’t help but notice the high gray stone wall that stood in the center of the city, protecting, according to Moiraine, the houses and palaces of the nobles, whose streets were, unlike those relegated to the commoners, paved with stones.

It had been easy to blend in with the crowds pushing and shoving through the city streets, Rand choosing—wisely—to follow Moiraine’s directions as she forced herself to appear less like herself—shedding the ring on her finger and the influence of an Aes Sedai—and keeping his arms covered, hiding his tattoos, any mention of the One Power null and void until he was protected by the walls of the inn where they would spend the next few days.

Getting inside the gray wall had been easier than he’d expected; wealth, apparently, was the key to getting around the city, and Moiraine carried herself like one when she wanted to, the clothes she’d handpicked—silk and embroidery—elevating their status enough to be accepted as wealthy visitors with nothing to do and seeking a visit from the guards at the great gate.

It had worked and continued to work the more days they spent in the city, venturing from one place to another, trying to figure out the best way to proceed.

Rand could see the fortress clearly, visible through the high window of the expensive, well-appointed hall where they were sitting, towering over the city like a small mountain. He tried unsuccessfully not to think about how difficult it would be to get past the Stone Defenders without destroying them.

The war hadn't even started yet, he sighed, and he was already tired of killing.

He was also tired of stupid parties whose only purpose was to elevate the rich, to give them even more power and influence, while the poor starved on the other side of the wall, hiding in stained houses, afraid of their own shadow and of a power they did not understand, did not know, hungry, cold and stuck in the mud. 

It seemed, Rand sighed, running his fingers over the finely embroidered fabric of the long black coat, that he had little to say about either situation.

Moiraine sat across from him in silence, her wineglass untouched by her hand, almost as if she had forgotten about it; it was part of her disguise, and there was no need to maintain it when they were all sitting at a table, pretending not to vomit from the absurd amount of food laid out in the hall while people ate rotten fish on the other side of the wall. The moonlight streaming in through the large, open window painted the outline of her face silver, highlighting the hard lines that Rand had noticed seemed infinitely more severe after the Aiel Waste.

Tired, he knew.

She was tired.

As tired as he was.

“Do they know we’re here?” He asked finally, his voice low, but the question was empty.

He knew the answer.

Moiraine didn't look at him right away, choosing to keep her eyes on the hall, watching as richly dressed men passed by unhurriedly, laughter muffled by the sound of the music playing, leading some to the center of the hall for a dance.

“It’s Tear,” she said finally, turning her face just enough so he could see the trace of a bitter smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “They always know.” She sighed. “Though they’re probably still trying to figure it out who we are.”

It had been a good time, the moment they reached the city, Rand knew; He wondered if it was another act of fate that they arrived at the port at the exact moment that one of the city's most famous festivals was beginning, welcoming people from all over. It was the only reason they still managed to go unnoticed, Rand knew, clasping his hands together in his lap. 

The tattoos beneath his sleeve were pulsing, burning as if they were alive, as if the power spreading within him was so desperate to be released, that it was beginning to make the inanimate come alive.

Rand wondered, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, if it was possible.

If he could, when he had Callandor in his hands, give life to what had perished.

The One Power liked the thought, Rand knew, writhing inside him as if it were purring, pleased and eager. It had screamed the last time he’d tried, with Alsera’s body in his hands, urging him on and on, even as the sane part of him began to scream at him to stop before what little control he had left, his sanity, slipped away.

“They’ve begun to assemble the Defenders,” Lan murmured, his voice low and controlled, his dark cloak billowing around his ankles as he settled into the space beside Moiraine. “At least two companies. The movement is quiet, but not invisible.”

Moiraine nodded slightly, as if she had expected it.

“When?”

“Before the next dawn, I’d say.” Lan crossed his arms. “They’re waiting for us to make a move.”

“We can’t risk another night.” She leaned forward, her elbows resting delicately on the edge of the table, her eyes fixed on his, steady, sure. “We’ve been here a week, Rand, and we still haven’t found a way to do this without being noticed.” She straightened. “We need to get you into the Stone tonight.”

Rand took a deep breath, the air thick and salty, burning his throat. He ran his hand through his hair, letting his fingers press against the base of his skull, as if that could quell the exhaustion that was already threatening to overcome him.

As if It could silence the voices.

Rand gave a short, dry, bitter laugh, so far removed from what he had once been that even Mat, who was approaching from the back of the room, looked away.

“Which would be easier?” He muttered, daring to voice the question that had been circling his mind since the second he had entered the city limits; to say, loud and clear and dangerously unadulterated, what had been whispered in his ears every second of the day. “Steal the sword or destroy the city?”

Moiraine didn’t answer right away, but Rand saw the way Lan stepped forward, his eyes locked on his, his hand resting on her shoulder for a second, steadying her as her body jerked back in surprise.

Lan answered for her.

“You already know the answer.”

He knew.

He knew and knew that no matter how or when or who was by his side, the end would always be the same.

With Callandor in hand or with the city in ruins.

Rand stood slowly, his muscles protesting the tension that had built up, and picked up the dark cloak that had been thrown over the chair, pulling it over his shoulders. The heavy fabric smothered some of the chill that had come in from the night and the light rain that was falling outside. It was too expensive, he knew; too strange and different from what he was used to wearing—even from that red coat he had worn in Cairhien. It was an unnecessary expense; another action he would not have taken if he had had a choice, but had taken, because the Wheel did not allow him to choose much and it would not start now.

The streets of Tear were always empty at night.

Inside the wall, the city belonged to the nobles, and none of them would risk spending a night in the rain, out in the open where some rebel might emerge, dreaming of a life, a world, that did not belong to him. So the stone streets, too clean, too tidy, were always empty under the dim moonlight, casting long shadows that twisted across the silent colonnades and courtyards.

The cloying perfume of the exotic flowers in the noble gardens mixed with the smell of wine, olive oil and salt that permeated the city, a little from the other side, a little from the inside, all in one place.

“Could have been worse,” Mat muttered, his hands shoved into the pockets of his short coat, the wide-brimmed hat he’d assumed upon arrival pulled low; the smirk on his lips seemed as out of place as the emptiness of the streets.

It was strange, something inside Rand knew.

Something was strange in the air.

Something inside him commanded him to do so, and Rand turned his head, his gaze meeting Mat’s eyes for a second—that old, stubborn gleam, and yet something too dark to be just the old mischief, shone in his eyes.

There was more there now; like himself, Rand thought.

Stained by what they had done and what they still had to do.

Lan led them in silence—he had been memorizing the path, Rand knew, studying it from every possible angle until he was sure they would not get lost or put themselves in a space where they could be easily shot—turning through alleys that peeked out from behind the stained stone houses, until the wall of The Stone of Tear loomed ahead of them.

Gray, immense, silent.

The torches of the Stonekeepers flickered high above the battlements. Somehow, Rand noticed, even with the movements Lan had reported, even with the city seeming aware he was right there, there was no patrol in sight at this point on the wall.

Rand frowned.

“It should be under surveillance.” Lan muttered, his eyes scanning the top of the stone as if searching for what wasn’t there. “That’s weird.”

“Or that’s luck.” Mat finished.

Rand didn't really believe in luck , and his hands moved automatically; the One Power ordered him to do so, so he did.

“No.” Moiraine ordered before he could channel, her eyes roving the steep stone wall. “Any weaving, any spark, will be felt, and we’ll have an army behind us.” She turned to look at Mat, who arched an eyebrow. “We’ll have to climb.”

Mat rolled his eyes, and he didn't need to speak for Rand to know exactly what he was going to say.

Of course, we will. 

Things never work out the easy way for them.

Still, as Mat pulled himself up —the wide, dark hat hiding his head and the event making the scarf around his neck flap — and Rand followed, testing the stones until he reached the top of the crumbling section of wall, and saw the way the arrow slits were pointed downward, one of them directly at where they stood, Lan trailing behind, Rand couldn’t help but think that perhaps there was a little luck working in their favor.

He realized, however, after a good while of wandering back and forth, that there was a reason beyond the guards for the Fortress to remain unbesieged for so long.

Inside, it was infinitely more complex than the thick, impermeable wall that had somehow cracked at that small point. Corridors — many corridors — opened out, joining at strange intersections, designed to confuse those who ventured through and probably give the defenders an extra advantage. 

Yet none of them came, and inside him, that quiet nagging that something was wrong began to grow, expand.

The corridors seemed to close in around them. Rand took a deep breath, like the claws of an invisible beast, tightening around him, and urging him to quicken his pace, driven by a brutal urgency that burned in his chest. Behind him, the others followed in silence, the muffled sound of their boots scraping against the stone floor filling the space between the columns.

But soon the path divided.

Then again.

And again.

Staircases that descended, passages that seemed to fold in on themselves, wide corridors that ended in dead alleys.

Light, Rand gasped, turning his eyes to Moiraine.

They were… lost.

“This side?” She suggested, pointing down a passage to the left, but the hesitation in her voice was unusual and transparent, and Rand felt a strange spark of despair gnaw at his insides. 

For some reason, he took a deep breath, the One Power had gone silent within him.

As if something was stopping him from guiding him.

“The right one looks wider…” Aviendha murmured uncertainly, and Rand turned his head, searching for some reference, some memory, something in his mind, in his memory, that would tell him the way to the Heart of the Stone… “It would be smart to follow an air vent.”

There was nothing, Rand realized, barely hearing her last words.

For the first time since the Aiel Waste, the voices in his head were perfectly quiet, and he hated that the feeling was good enough that he didn't want to think about why.

“No.” Mat said, his voice echoing loudly in the stone hall, speaking for the first time in what Rand realized was a long time, and he turned to see him pointing to a narrow archway hidden between two cracked columns. “We should go that way.”

Moiraine frowned.

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know.” Mat shrugged, the dagger gripped tightly in his hand. His eyes were shining when they landed on Rand, a strange spark that made him feel, for some unknown reason, slightly uncomfortable. “I just… know.”

Rand hesitated for only a second.

Then, he followed.

And as fate had determined it would be, the others did the same to him.

Something inside him slowly began to twist at each fork in the road that Mat paused for a second, before the body turned so quickly that Rand had seen surprise flash across his own face, before Mat straightened and kept walking. There was a tingling in his scalp, Rand felt it, a feeling of foreboding growing in his chest.

“This way.” Mat murmured, oblivious to the sensation unraveling in his chest, dodging a loose stone on the ground before Rand could even notice it, his fingers firm on his dagger.

Touch me, the One Power ordered within him, finally , and Rand let his fingers move, a tiny flicker, a subtle touch that he hoped would give him clarity, but though it answered the call, nothing came.

Moiraine gave him a worried look.

Rand tried not to show the uneasiness he felt as the steps began to descend, taking them deeper into the fortress, but he could not contain the loud gasp that escaped his lips as a large room opened before his eyes, round, the ceiling supported by columns of red stone.

It wasn't the sword floating hilt-down in the center of the room that made him gasp, however.

It was the woman who was waiting for him, leaning against the thick pillar at the side of the room, her arms crossed over the white dress that floated around her body, a calm smile on her lips, her white, untouched skin looking even paler in contrast to the red-stained floor around her feet.

Bodies, Rand gasped.

The Stone Defenders were spread out around her; countless.

He tried to count the twisted suits of armor and broken spears, but his stomach threatened to turn when he came upon a body torn in half, blood soaking the cracks between the flagstones, and he turned his eyes back to her, trying to ignore the carnage that snaked its way to the edges of the circular room.

“Hello, Rand.” She whispered, rolling his name on her tongue in that way that always sent a shiver through him, her lips curling into a dangerous smile. The One Power twisted inside him, and it wasn’t a fight he’d anticipated, shame unfurling in his chest at the realization. “Took you long enough… lost yourself in the way?”

She watched him approach, entering the room, uncrossing her arms with a delicate movement.

Her eyes, those blue eyes he loved, flared for a second, trailing down his body before she tilted her head slightly, her eyes lingering on Mat for a moment—longer than Rand liked, something inside him twisting, uneasy, threatening to scrape the walls of his chest—before they moved over the others; Rand saw darkness flood the blue as they settled on Moiraine’s figure.

He saw the way she took a step back, almost bumping into Lan.

Her smile widened, something dangerous glinting in her white fangs, a little longer than he remembered.

“You’re alive.” He found himself muttering, before he could stop himself.

Alive, he realized, and perfectly unchanged, not a hair off her face, her skin perfectly flawless, as it always had been. She rolled her eyes at him, as if the question—the doubt —  outrage her.

“Obviously.” She answered anyway, stretching the word out. Her eyes didn’t stay on him for long, flickering back to Mat, and Rand felt his body tense as her smile widened, becoming a full grin. Beautiful — he thought and tried to bury the thought with a firm grip of his hands into two fists; it didn't work. “You are an interesting, lucky man , aren’t you, Matrim Cauthon?!”

Mat didn't answer, but his eyes narrowed.

“I’ve seen you before,” he murmured, his eyes following her movement as a buried, uncomfortable memory surfaced. “In Falme.”

“You did.” She whispered, her gaze warming in a way that made Rand involuntarily take a step forward, as if he could, by his mere presence, come between them. Tear her eyes away from him and return them where they belonged. It didn’t work, and she didn’t look at him, keeping her eyes completely absorbed in Mat. “A little favor to a dear friend.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice an intimate, almost confiding whisper. “Took you where you needed to be... Did you enjoy the ride?”

Mat let out a low, brief laugh, the weight of memory perhaps making the sound less light than he intended.

“It really didn’t seem like I had much of a choice.”

“No.” Lanfear laughed, really now, a sound clear and dangerous, and familiar and adored . “You really didn’t.”

Mat made an indignant noise in response, barely noticing the way Rand’s fist clenched tighter at his side, his fingers twitching until he felt his skin burn. Jealousy rose thick and acid in his throat, Rand felt it, and he hated it, hated deeply, that part of himself he couldn't hide, that he couldn't just not feel it .

The relief that flooded his chest when he saw her, even though it was her. Even though she was surrounded by bodies. Even though she was probably there to try to kill them.

Even if she was a monster.

That irritation that burned inside him the longer her eyes stayed on Mat and not him, when it was him she loved.

When he was the one who had spent six months wondering if she was alive or dead, trying to talk to her and being rejected , again and again.

“Why is it always the pretty ones who want to kill us?” Mat muttered, a curse following the sentence, one hand coming up to rub his forehead in frustration. Lanfear smiled back, a glint of something lethal and inescapable curving her perfect lips. “Who are you exactly?” He asked, curiosity barely concealed in his voice. “You do understand that we apparently have more enemies than the creator.” He blinked at her, hiding his fear beneath sarcasm. “It’s hard to keep count.”

“Oh, you know who I am; it’s in the back of your mind all the time.” She laughed, and Rand knew her well enough to recognize the amusement in her tone. “You’re just afraid to say it out loud… Come on…” She smiled at him, dangerous and hungry. “I will say it with you… It’s —”

“Selene.” He answered for her, unable to help himself, unable to let Mat’s eyes wander over her, to let hers pass over him, that way, for one more second. “That — That’s Selene .” He murmured, turning to face him, pushing her name—her name, her name, her name — through his teeth. That detestable part of him filled with pleasure when he saw Mat’s eyes widen in recognition. “My Selene.”

“Lanfear.” She corrected, her eyes shining. “I’m Lanfear .” She stated, the smile dying on her lips, her face taking on that predatory form Rand had only seen once before; that night, in that cabin in the mountains. Right before she’d pushed him down onto the bed and tied his arms, straddling him as he tried to keep his cock from hardening at the mere way she’d looked at him. “And unless you want to go back to those early, savage, war days, Lews, you’re going to give me what I want .”

Rand tried not to take a step back.

Lews.

She had never called him that, before. Not like that. Knew that he didn’t like it. 

Inside him, in his mind, something purred in response, wanting to get out.

Wanting to answer.  

He forced it down, forced what he felt with her along, so he could growl the words, so he could say what needed to be said.

“You tortured —”

“Not you , you arrogant fuck.” She growled, cutting his words in half, her eyes flashing, anger burning in the deep blue. She spat the words out, her feet moving slowly, her white dress dragging against the blood staining the floor. “I’m tired of loving alone, Lews.” 

Beside him, Rand felt movement, Moiraine shifting, drawing the One Power into her hands. Her eyes flickered to Moiraine for a second—just a second—and then, before he could react, Rand heard Lan scream, his scream swallowing Moiraine’s as her body slammed against the same wall as his and then flew forward, her chest heaving as she gasped for air, her fingers curling into her chest as if to break through the flesh and touch what lay within.

Rand frowned in confusion as she thrust her hands into the air, tugging and tugging until the collar around Mat’s neck snapped and flew into her hands, but the movement was too fast for him to understand why, and Mat slammed into the wall next, a line of power burning through the air as she did so, her eyes flooding with darkness. The collar slammed into Mat’s chest next, the fox glowing as it fell to the floor at his feet. Aviendha whimpered, her body crumpled against the floor, next to Lan’s, and Rand wondered when it had happened; at what moment she had moved the One Power against them, too quickly for him to even notice.

Was it even the One Power?! The question rose upon his mind. Could someone do that with the One Power?

Or was it something else ?

“I spent years trying to make you love me. Trying to make you understand.” She growled, pushing her face forward, closer to his, until it looked like she wanted to spit in him such was the contempt that shone in his eyes. Rand felt the power spreading out of her, as if it flowed out of her pores, deep and heavy and thick, slowly suffocating him, seeming to suck the air around her. “But you don’t want to understand.” She choked on the word and even though her power was pressing down on him, making it difficult to think, Rand wondered if he was speaking a different language. “You don’t want me."

If he had always spoken in a different language, one so lost and old, that even she didn't understand.

“ I don't want you?!" Rand gasped in disbelief, forcing the words out. “I loved you!” He growled, a deep well opening up inside him, a pit of anger and frustration that threatened to swallow him whole. “I loved you, and you lied to me.” The words were sharp. Direct. So sincere, coming from so deep inside him, that Rand tasted blood on his tongue. “You lied to me, and you would have continued to lie if Egwene hadn’t found out about us, and you have the courage to say that I don’t want—” He laughed, choking on his own laughter, on frustration. “You know what I want, Lanfear?! What I want,” He growled, “Is to hate you . ” His voice cracked in the middle, raw as exposed flesh. “I want to hate you so much that it burns me inside until there’s nothing of you left. Until I forget what it’s like to smell you, to touch you, the way you say my name like you love me, like I’m everything to you when all you do is play with me.”

She took a step back, a small step, an inch or so, but Rand saw it anyway.

He saw, and did not stop, that bottomless pit opening until he was gushing words out, until he was saying everything he wanted to say, unable to control the words, unable to control the anger; unable to control the way his heart hurt when he looked at her.

“ I can’t trust you.” He choked out a scoff, with the pain , the words hurt. “Every time I try, you betray my trust. Make me have to hate you.” He was yelling, Rand realized, his body tense as he spoke, his jaw aching from the force with which he clenched it. Inside him, the One Power was swelling, as if it were being forced into a vessel too small and ready to burst, but couldn’t get out. “You keep fighting against me; keep trying to force me into something I can't accept, trying to turn me into someone I can't be.” He whispered.  “Trying to defeat me.”

“I want you to win the war, you idiot. Always did.” She spat the words at him, her eyes flashing, shining. “You may have learned how to herd sheep, Lews, but you never learn how to listen. I can’t break my vows.” She growled, drawing out the word can with something that sounded more like a sob than a word, and for a second, just a second, Rand saw the pain flood her eyes. “I can’t declare myself by your side, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't help you. I did help you. I left Elan die for you, for Light sake! Elan!” She laughed, but all he heard in the sound was hurt and pain and a choked cry that she would never let him hear. “You were always too arrogant to thank me, and I am done! Never again.” She growled, repeated. “Never again, Rand. I won't give you anything more.” 

She didn't let him answer, and although he didn't know what she was doing, didn't recognized what was she doing, Rand finally saw. Saw the black shadow surrounding her, a power he didn't know but could feel, strong and deep, heavy , pushing his knees down, weighing down his bones and muscles until he was kneeling against the stone, the expensive fabric of his pants soaking into the blood that was spreading across the room.

Still choking on something he couldn't see, Moiraine made a desperate sound, trying to pull something out of her chest, half-hunched forward, her fingers digging and digging, trying to get past the fabric, trying to get past the flesh.

Rand gasped, and saw the wires appear.

Delicate as mist, like her fingers in the strands of her own hair, dark — so dark—a cloud of darkness twisting in patterns he didn't recognize, patterns so intricate that Rand couldn't even comprehend, coiling itself from the inside out, tearing itself from within Moiraine and coiled over her chest. Moiraine gasped, her body arching involuntarily as the weaving pulled away from her, then returned, melting into her, deep, dragging itself inward, far beyond her flesh, a small knot that coiled into a ball.

“One pull.” Lanfear growled at him, and her words tasted like salt. “And she dries .” She spat the word. “Wherever she is. Wherever I am. Any time I want, awake or asleep, or fucking dead and so deeply that not even the Dark One would be able to extract a drop of power from her . He taught me that himself and he teaches it well . ” She pushed the word out as if it were made of steel. “And if you don’t hand me over the Sakarnen, that moment will be now .” She spat at him. “Let’s see if you can untie this one before I pull it out completely.”

Rand's eyes widened, his knees aching where the power was pushing him down.

The One Power was struggling, he realized, struggling so hard against the power she used that the stonework was cracking beneath him.

“Mierin —” He began.

She laughed.

“Ah, now I’m Mierin .” Anger flashed in her eyes. “What do you expect, Rand? That that name will make me vulnerable enough for you to take a chance?! That I will believe it means something because it comes from you?” She tilted her head, her black hair streaming like bloodstained silk over her shoulder. Her eyes blazed, a mixture of hurt and hate, like a pyre about to consume them both. Part of him wanted to be consumed, Rand gasped. Part of him wanted to be consumed by her until there was nothing left. “You don’t get to call me that.” She growled. “You don’t love me enough to call me that.” She hissed, taking a step forward, forcing Rand to lean closer, pressing until the stone beneath his knees shattered, cracking into veins. She whispered. “You never did.”

Rand choked back a sob.

Tried to bite back the anger.

Tried to bite back the hurt.

Failed.

“I loved you enough to risk the world for you.” Rand confessed, low and choked and ashamed and so sincere it hurt. “I loved you enough to tell you where I was when it could have meant my death. When it could have meant losing the world. I loved you enough,” He growled, anger starting to bubble up again, words starting to blur together in his mind. “To spend six months curled up in a bed that doesn’t smell like you just to be close to you, and you let me think you were dead.” He spat the words out, barely noticing the way the stonework around him cracked, cracking a little more with each word. “Loved you enough to still love you, even so.”

“But not enough to accept me.” She spoke, her voice losing its anger, melting into coldness. “Like I accepted you.” She continued, her voice low, intimate, as cruel as the way she looked at him could be, enough pain seeping through the blue for him to see, even if she tried to bury it beneath the ice. “I accepted every part of you. Lews… Rand… every broken part, every weakness. I accepted you. And all I asked…” She laughed, a dry sound. “All I asked was that you accept me, too.” She blinked, slowly. “And you called me a monster when I gave you everything I have, everything I am , to prove you that you are not one .”

Rand gasped, the words getting lost in his chest, any response he could think of to give dying on his lips, drowning in her anger, in the sheen of a tear—the only one—he saw roll down her face.

The most beautiful face he had ever seen.

“I wanted you , Rand.” She said it again, and the words hurt like they did the first time, wreaking his heart, threatening to break his soul. “I wanted power — my power — yes, because it’s mine , and I deserve it ; I’ve done enough to deserve it. But I wanted to sit on that rock with you and let you talk about things I'll never see the way you do, just as bad as I want to win . Listen to things that will never matter to me the way they do to you, but that I wanted to hear it anyway because it matters to you. ” She murmured, slow and low, and inside him, that stupid part of him, wanted to believe it, even though she was still holding him down. Even though she was still hurting him. Hurting the ones he loved. “And I wanted to watch that sunrise with you and fight over the left side of the bed and I even wanted that stupid cabin.”

Behind him, Rand heard Mat gasp.

He listened as he recognized the words for what they were.

The dream for what it was.

“And yet you will never choose me. I give you everything , and it’s never enough.” She whispered, low and hurt. “Do you know what Elan told me in the night you got married in your past life?! As I cried on his shoulder and he tried not to cry for me too because one of us had to be strong, so the other wouldn’t be alone?!” She laughed, bitter and hurt. “He told me that if you truly loved me, like I deserved , you would have accepted me as I was and would have held me instead of expecting me to bow to you, and you would never abandon me. Like he did.” She laughed again. “And I let him die. For you .”

Rand felt his blood run cold.

For a moment, he blinked, the world seeming to narrow down to the sound of her breathing, heavy, broken, as if each word had ripped a piece out of her that was left. There were no more Moiraine’s muffled screams, no more Lan’s subtle movement trying to compose herself, no more the sound of the sword stuck in the center of the room, spinning, floating slowly against the stone like a bloody clock marking the time that passed between them.

Only her.

And him.

And what they were, and what couldn't be.

And that image in his head.

A different version of her, her hair loose, floating around her face, those same blue eyes shining in the same way they did every morning at that inn — when she woke with his touch on her bare back, lips pressed against the curve of her shoulder in a silent farewell before he left for work — and her lips open in a laugh.

He could almost hear the sound, Rand realized.

Loud and genuine and happy — free .

Could almost feel the way his chest had tightened at the memory, at that moment, as she did it, his chest burning while her cheeks flushed slightly as she lowered her eyes to the ground and laughed, the man beside her joining in the laughter before opening an arm to the side and she let herself fall into it, the man pulling her tightly against his chest.

Elan, that voice in his mind whispered.

Elan , Lews informed again, even though Rand had heard it the first time; even though he didn’t need him to say it to know who the shadow dressed in gray beside her was. To recognize his face.

Elan, Lews whispered to him again.

The friend, the brother, the lover.

Everything.

A long time ago, the voices in his head blended into a low affirmation, when they were other peoples; when they carried other names.

A long time ago , when they were still a “them”.

Lews Therin Telamon, Elan Morin Tedronai, and Mierin Eronaile, the nexus between the two of them.

She looked so happy, Rand gasped, his eyes heavy, trying to focus on the present as the past flooded his mind, making him dizzy, confusing his senses.

So, so happy.

He pulled her a little closer to him, against his chest, easily and calmly wrapping his arm around her a little tighter, slightly crumpling the white fabric of the dress she was wearing. Something light — Rand realized — and she laughed a little more, her head tilted slightly back, loose hair shining in the sunlight that spread out, golden and alive, before them both.

It felt like something was being torn from inside him, Rand realized, at the sound of her laughter. Was it him?! He choked. Was it him, or had it been Lews who had felt his heart stop, as if she were holding it in her hand and squeezing it?!

“ Lews… ” Her voice sounded in his mind.

As clear as her laughter, as familiar as it was now, still twisting her tongue around the letters, and Rand lifted his eyes to her, for an instant doubting whether it was just a thought, something only in his mind, or if she had really called out to him.

But then she turned her face over Elan’s shoulder, still wrapped in his arms, and looked at him.

Directly.

Straight into his eyes, and Rand, Lews, Rand — Rand and Lews, Lews and Rand, he and him, the past and the present, what had once been and what he was and what he would be — felt the ground give way beneath his feet, even though, in that fragment of time, he stood still, motionless, just a few steps away.

“What?” She murmured softly, that half-smile he knew so well, half teasing, half inviting, spreading over those beautiful lips. “Have I finally made you speechless?!”

He murmured something in the memory, something tangled and senseless, and Elan laughed aloud, his arm still wrapped around her, squeezing her lightly in playful provocation, and Rand saw the way her eyes sparked at him for a second, quietly huffing at the playful pinch that Lews — Rand — saw him press against her waist, her smile growing in knowing complicity, before returning to him.

Her eyes were shining.

She rolled them at him, but Rand could perfectly see the way her cheeks had reddened a bit more; the way she had softened slightly at whatever it was she had seen on his face.

“ Move , Lews,” She grumbled, tilting her head slightly, but her eyes were still fixed on him, the vivid, wide smile on her lips, and he recognized the false exasperation in her words as easily as he would now. Elan pulled her a little closer, his chin resting on her head. Her smile grew. “You need to help me criticize all of Elan’s work until he gets tired of me and gives me that bottle of wine I like.”

In the memory, Lews laughed, moving closer until her face was near his. Until she pulled away from the embrace to let him grab her fingers in his.

Against the numbness in his mind, the burning in his eyes, Rand felt his knees sink a little deeper into the stone. Closed his eyes, wishing the ground would swallow him, that the world would stop, that the pain would make sense.

Wishing that the pain inside him, that salt-soaked wound, as open as the first day, would stop.

“Just once, I wanted you to choose me.” She murmured, squaring her shoulders. “But you didn’t. You never will. And I’ve had enough. I’m ending this. Us.” She clarified. “ I can’t take it anymore.” She stepped back, holding up her hand, the sleeves of her white dress moving against the wind; she looked so sad now in comparison, Rand gasped. So hurt. Was it him, he wondered, was it him who did it?! Was it him who snuffed out that sparkle? Who snuffed out her? “It took me three thousand years, but I’m finally doing it, Lews.” She gasped a little cry. “I’m abandoning you.”

Something cracked inside him at the prospect— something dangerous and deep and profound and frightened—, and Rand didn’t realize he had choked out a loud, choked, hurt “ don’t ” until the word reverberated back to him.

The shadow of the madness — the shadow of Lews — writhed inside him, tearing, splitting, as if part of him wanted to reach out to her, to wipe that single tear from her face, to take that thin hand he knew in his own and press it to his chest, never let her go again, and another part wanted to scream, to pull at all the power within him and unravel every thread of that weaving she had cast over Moiraine and hurt her.

But he couldn't move.

Tried anyway — Because he loved her. Wanted her. Wanted to be the one to make her laugh that way again. Wanted her to love him back. —, dragging his knees over the stone, trying to get to his feet.

He didn't realize that instead of standing up, he had crawled closer to her, until he blinked and saw the hem of that white dress closer, stained red, and the broken stone beside it, cracking along the path where he had walked.

Lanfear lifted her chin.

Her gaze cut into his, cold, resolute, and yet—still—wounded.

She reached out her hand.

The open palm, that power he didn't know circulating, wrapping around the slender fingers, trailing through the ring.

To the place where his fingers should fit.

“ Give me the Sakarnen.”

It wasn't a request.

“I can’t.” Rand whispered, and it was the truth. It was the truth, and it pained him to say. To deny her yet another thing. Didn't she know ?! Couldn’t she see ?! “Lanfear, I can't."

He couldn't, because he didn't trust her.

He couldn’t trust her.

He wanted to trust her.

He wanted to trust her so much that it hurt. Wanted to hold her hand in his and be the one she rested her body against. Wanted her weight against his chest. Wanted to keep that promise. Light , he wanted to keep that promise so badly, that he could cry . 

More than anything, more than he could even think.

But the power… Light, Rand gasped, the amount of power she had…

It was absurd.

It was already absurd.

The way she kept holding all four of them, unchanged in their prisons even when she herself was not impassive, even when her emotions threatened to break free... The control she had, Rand choked, the confidence with the power she holds, not even a movement necessary before the power enveloped them...

He hadn’t even seen the weaving, he choked; had barely seen what she had woven, what weave it was that kept them still — trapped — pushing the One Power down inside him, forcing it away from his grasp until it was impossible for him to pull it out, caging it in a vase. With Moiraine, Egwene, even with Siuan... he saw . He saw the movement, saw the weave before they formed it, before it took physical shape and was wielded.

All he had seen her do was blink .

All she did was blink, and Aviendha had flown into a corner of the wall, her face pressed against the floor as if something were sitting on her back, pushing her down, holding her there. And Mat... Rand blinked, Mat was hanging in the air, just above the ground, his brow furrowed as if he were in pain, his hand pressed against his chest, as if there was a rope around his neck, strangling him, loose enough not to kill, tight enough for him to know she could .

She would have obliterated her, Rand realized, and the thought was not a surprise, but an old observation.

If she had truly wanted to, she would have buried her beneath the sand, the ash lost in the desert, painted with her blood. She would not need a sword if she had fought with enough intent. Wouldn’t need her hands. If she had fought to kill and not just to hurt. If she wanted Moiraine dead for real, and wasn't just playing with his own words. 

Giving him what he'd accused her of being. 

To hurt him with her actions, as he had hurt her with his words.

What she could do with the Sakarnen… 

Light.

He could barely think of what she could do, Rand gasped; with how much she knew... How far she could go. How dangerous she would become with all the knowledge that she possessed — years, centuries of it — if it had laid in her hands. 

To him.

To the world.

What she would do. Had already done so much. Hurt so many people. Moiraine. Egwene . How could he do it?! He couldn't, Rand knew; told himself again. Wouldn't risk it. Couldn't trust her enough to try. Couldn’t risk it, even for her. Even to prove to her. Couldn't trust her enough to do it. 

To risk the world. 

Couldn't prove her wrong without doing it.

Couldn't tell her that it was a lie; that she was mistaken.

That he could.

That he would.

He couldn’t risk it, Rand gasped.

But he wanted so bad to do it.

To say what he wanted, to take what he wanted, for once.

Before the world consumed him, before madness took hold of him; before he could no longer do it. Before he no longer existed. Before she was too far for him to reach. Before she abandons him, like she abandoned the light; like Lews abandoned her.

Just once.

The One Power vibrated within him in response to the thought, vast and untamed, uncoiling within him, clawing at the door, wanting to get out. It burned in his veins, an untamed fire that wanted to explode outward, consume everything, turn the world upside down, burn it from the inside out, and Rand closed his eyes for a second, listening to the stone crack beneath him.

It spread, he heard, the crack spreading a little wider around him. Around her, the One Power creeping out from within him, breaking through the barriers he had—with great effort—put up, spreading, wider and wider, until he was choking on power, until he could feel the pressure she had on him ease, slowly, a quick fraction of time, but long enough for him to move, pushing against her.

She made a noise, surprised and perhaps even a little scared, as the One Power bounced off the barrier she held, bursting, and inside him, even though he didn't want to, a part of him cringed, wondering if he had hurt her.

Rand swallowed the thought, and held out his hand.

Not for her.

But to the ground.

For Callandor.

He felt the crystalline blade respond, long before it cut through the stone, pulsing with him, as if it was a rhythm that beat with him, a rhythm that was part of his soul, that knew it was his and he was his. The crystal blade pulsed, reverberating with the power of the Sa’angreal, and through it, Rand felt the world shake—the ground, the air, the blood spilled. Every strand of the One Power stretched out as far as he could reach, the threads of Saidin and Saidar weaving around him like a tapestry that only he could see, alive, shining, deadly.

It was a lot, Rand gasped.

A lot of power.

Too much pressure.

Too much  everything and he wanted more, more, more and more, he wanted to wallow in that power, that pressure, until he was glowing and made of light and power, until there was nothing— nothing — that he could not do.

Someone shouted his name, trying to call him back.

Rand ignored it.

He closed his hand around the fist instead, and in one movement he rose, pulling his knees and all the Power with him.

The ground exploded around him, shards of stone and blood and dust flying everywhere, threatening to suffocate him, but Rand paid no attention. He barely felt the rocks slamming into his body, barely heard the screams around him, barely saw her white dress stained red as her body hit the ground—what was left of the ground—hard, her black hair fanning out across her face.

Everything he saw, Rand took a deep breath of delight, everything he felt , was the Power.

Callandor pulsed in his hand, like a second heart, like a second body, and Rand looked down at the sword, watching the way the glass sword glowed, nearly blinding him.

That wasn't human, Rand blinked, so much power.

So much power, he looked, and it was his.

His to do with as he pleases.

He could kill her, he knew.

For the first time, he knew he could actually kill her. He was strong enough to do it. Callandor would turn her to ash so fast that she wouldn’t be able to heal herself this time.

He could kill her.

Should kill her.

But it had not been power that had stopped him the other times, Rand remembered, like a low voice whispering in the corner of his mind. It had never been power that had stopped him from attacking her; from destroying her.

Never power, but something else.

She gasped where she stood, throwing a huge rock away from her body, power and darkness enveloping her, healing her, until she looked immaculate again, if not for her blood-and-sand-stained dress. Aviendha had her hand pressed to her belly, he noticed, where a rock had hit her hard, staining the pale shirt she wore, Mat helping her to her feet, his hair disheveled and no blood in his body; must have ended in the right spot.

He had lost his scarf, tough, Rand saw.

And on his neck he saw perfectly clear that white mark.

No one he loved would die again, Rand decided. 

Not anymore.

He would make sure it wouldn't happen.

Was strong enough to do so.

Beside him, somewhere in the room that was falling apart a little more by the second, Rand heard Moiraine gasp, crawling across the destroyed floor to her feet, Lan grabbing her by the forearm. 

The Sakarnen hung at his feet, having rolled from wherever she had hidden it —something woven with the One Power, surely, until it lay still, shining white and clear and clean against the contrast of the blood that stained the floor and the dust that clung to it.

He could defeat the Shadow with that. He could seal the Dark One forever. He could have Moiraine by his side while he did it. All he had to do, was make sure she was okay. He could undo that knot now that she wasn’t holding it, that fern of darkness and fury; knew that she knew that he could, if he wanted to. He could save it for someone stronger than her.  Nynaeve, perhaps; one day. 

He could do it.

Would need it to get where he was supposed to end.

In his mind, that voice, low, dangerous and already familiar whispered to him, singing a song he already knew by heart.

Into the heart, he thrusts his sword,

into the heart, to hold their hearts.

Could.

But he didn't want to.

Callandor had already become familiar in his hand, Rand realized; the weight had settled into his body until it felt as if he held nothing but himself. 

Rand readjusted it, curving the blade to the side.

And then, with a calm he didn't feel, with a heart that screamed, desperate and broken and hurt and wounded, with a bleeding soul, Rand bent down until his hand scraped the ground and grabbed the Sakarnen.

It was weightless, useless to him — to a man — and Rand held it in his hand, his eyes roving over the small, plain white ball. He had seen it in Rhuidean. He had seen it with Moiraine as she tried—in vain—to learn how to use it, never reaching its full potential; there would be no loved one to die in every battle to balance her power and no other enemy would refrain itself from the kill. 

She would burn, he knew, sooner or later, clinging to it.

She coughed beside him, clearing the dust from her face, and Rand saw the exact moment her eyes broke through the dust enough to see him.

To see what he was holding.

He wondered, and if his heart weren’t breaking, he would have laughed, if he was that transparent. 

If she could really read him that well,  if he was wearing his heart on his sleeve the whole time, or if she had being waiting for him to give up to the so-called madness all the time.

There was no madness in his mind this time; Rand knew.

Just her.

“Rand.” She began, low, slow. His name sounded like a demand. Like an accusation again, in another lips. Like she was speaking to a frightened animal. Her eyes widened, doubling in size the longer he stood, Callandor glowing in his hand and the world crumbling around him. The fortress was crumbling, Rand heard it. Callandor had been wielded. The Stone of Tear should fall. Her voice shook when she spoke again, choked and shaky. Frightened. “ Rand!”

He ignored it.

Her hand trembled slightly as he grabbed it with the hand that held Callandor, lifting it up, gently, and she made a small unconscious movement—a slight jerk backward—when he placed it down on the palm he held out.

“I do love you enough. More . More than you know.” He spoke at last, and his voice, he realized, sounded hoarse, as if he had swallowed a rock. As if pieces of the room were lodged in his throat, when all he had was what he felt for her. “More than I can say; more than I’m allowed to say.” He murmured, reaching out with his now empty hand to push a strand of hair away from her face—it was long again, and he loved it that way. “With everything I have, Lanfear.”

She said nothing, her eyes wide, and if he wasn't destroying himself, giving away the one thing she needed to help his enemies destroy him, or worse, for her to disappear, Rand would have laughed. All those months in Cairhien, all those months after Cairhien, and he finally, finally had managed to really surprise her with something.

“If you mean what you said to me in that rock… If you really mean that… Don’t use it against me.” Pleading, Rand concluded. That's what his voice sounded like. “Please.” He muttered. “Don’t break my trust, my heart , again.” He paused, watching the way that little crease appeared between her eyebrows, fading away the second she understood what he was doing. What he was saying. Choosing. “You have it.” He confessed, so quietly that if it weren't for the way her breath caught, he would have repeated it, thinking she hadn't heard. “The world may have my body, but you have my heart. My soul. Every sane thought. I won't have many of those left; I know it, can already feel them slipping away.” He choked, saw the way her eyes softened. “But every one of them, is yours.”

She had leaned into him, Rand noticed; knew she probably hadn’t even noticed, her body leaning ever so slightly into his, until he could feel the fabric of her dress brush against his clothes, the bottoms tangling against his legs. 

Her hand closed over the Sakarnen, blue eyes locked on him, her lips half-open and that damned gorgeous hair falling around her face, her dust-stained dress failing to make her look anything but gorgeous. 

The movement almost made him feel the curve of her finger brush against him, her hand still outstretched in the air, half pressed against his chest, burning even through his wrinkled coat, and Rand wondered if she would open her hand if he asked her to.

If she would plant it on his chest and feel the thump in his chest.

If she could feel it broke beneath her hands.

“And If I, somehow, survive…” He began, weighing the words. “If somehow I survive this, all of this, and you still want that cabin…” He blinked away the burning that threatened to curl around his eyes. He whispered, low and sincere, aware of the eyes burning into his back, the noise surrounding them. “I’ll leave the left side of the bed for you.”

For a moment, Rand stood beside her, Callandor hunched over his side and his body. For a moment, everything seemed suspended—the sound of the fortress collapsing muffled as if it came from far away, the stones breaking, the columns cracking, the sky crumbling above them, and yet neither of them moved.

Slowly, he released the strand of hair he had brushed away from her face, his fingers lightly brushing the skin he knew so well—and might never touch again—his index finger and thumb brushing her cheek gently. Her gaze was still fixed on him, but there was something new there now, something he hadn’t seen before, not even when everything between them was fire and knife and shadow.

Maybe it was just astonishment. 

Maybe it was something else.

Rand didn't know. 

He didn't want to know.

Couldn’t take it.

Wouldn’t be able to know and not abandon what he need it to do.

He took a deep breath, the air thick with dust and smoke, and took a step back. Then another.

She didn't move.

For a moment he thought she would speak, laugh, insult him, run after him, pull him back… anything. He waited—hoped—that she would. But she just stood there, her eyes locked on his, her breathing ragged, her hand shaking slightly, wrapped around the Sakarnen.

Rand closed his eyes for a second, just long enough so that no one would see what he could no longer hide; so that no one would see the extension of what he couldn't hide. How deeply he felt for her. 

How hard it was to walk away; to choose the world over her again. 

How much he wanted to give in and just let the world burn; to take the weight off his shoulders and let her take that weight off his heart, to open that door and let that love he had buried—tried to—come out.

To allow himself to love her as she deserved it. 

As he does.

Then he opened them again, firmly, and turned around.

His heart ached, Rand realized, and it had nothing to do with the absurd pressure of power that had been thrust upon him, and that would inevitably take its toll on his body. Or with the fact that he had chosen — even for a moment — a forsaken over what might be the fate of the world—not just any forsaken, he reminded himself, her.

Rand took a deep breath, stopping where the door should have been one last time, and then looked up at the sky, the fortress having crumbled enough that he could see the sun, starting to rose; he could hear the feets behind him.

Four pairs of them.

Her name weighed a ton on his heart, in his tongue, like having a Troll's paws pressed against his chest, but he swallowed it back down, forcing it down his throat with such force that he felt vomit rise up, bittering his mouth, desperate to let it come out.

For him to scream it.

To scream it to himself. To her. To the world. To that Wheel and that pattern that wouldn't let him choose.

That wouldn't let him choose her.

He took the first step out, slow, heavy, feeling every muscle scream, every part of him silently shatter. And behind him, as he walked through the ruin of the fortress, and the rest of it started to come to dust, he heard her breath catch. Barely a whisper, low and choked, secret, but Rand stopped, his body tense, the hand holding Callandor trembling for a moment, unable to contain himself.

He turned his face, a quick, almost desperate look.

She was already gone.

Callandor weighed less than nothing in his hand, power circling him, enveloping him so much that it felt more like he was floating than walking, his body light as if he were floating in the air, driven by the power, not even thinking, just going.

So much power.

It still wasn't enough. 

And the Dragon Reborn still wasn’t strong enough to pretend not to cry as her voice followed him where she wouldn't go.

Chapter Text

Rand had long and more often than was considered healthy wondered if it might one day be possible to create a weaving machine that could control time. If one day — assuming he managed to not destroy the world and there were actually any left — something to evolve and develop — someone would discover, unfold, a weaving that would allow time to become fluid, that would break the limitations of the past and the rules of the pattern, that would enter between the wheels of time, and allow what was done to be undone.

It had taken him three weeks to work up the courage to said it aloud to himself, and it shamed him to know that even if he had — if he could go back in time — he would still have done the same thing.

Three weeks to come out to himself, and even now, thirteen weeks since he'd done it, it felt as raw and fresh as it had the day before.

Thirteen weeks, Rand sighed, in which he had been immersed in the political machinations surrounding Tear — learning to get in them —, pretending not to feel the eyes burning holes into his back, pretending not to feel the distrust, the fear and the disappointment which emanated so strongly from Aviendha that, if she had been any worse at controlling the One Power, it would have created physical form in the air.

Everything had a price, Rand knew.

And the price paid for her — for a possibility — had been the respect he had slowly and painstakingly managed to wrest from Aiel woman, a little at a time, slowly building a relationship that, while not close enough to be called intimate, bordered on friendly. Those four months in the Aiel Desert, seventeen weeks he had spent wandering from place to place, trying to build a relationship with his own people, trying to be accepted for his people, to unify them under his flag, under his standard, had failed to guarantee them total unification, part of them — the Shaidos, led by Couladin, were still an unresolved problem; something Rand knew it would return, very soon, to hinder him, to stand in his way — still rejecting him as Cara’a’Carn, but they had caused those walls of hers to slowly melt away for him.

They were almost as tall as the wall that divided Tear now.

He understood.

He understood perfectly.

He had broken the code.

Not just his — if he could still say he had one — but hers. More than that, he had broken the code of an entire people;  his people .  

No words were needed to express what had been lost or what was required for the Aiel people; ji'e'toh spoke for themselves, honor and obligation that intertwined until they became one. 

Honor that translated into actions, choices.

Responsibilities.

A debt that could not be ignored, forgiven, without due recognition. Without being paid what was due. 

He had embarrassed her, Rand knew.

He had embarrassed her by choosing the enemy over the world, choosing love over the world, while, all the time, all her life, she had not bowed to love, nor to power, carrying her decisions as she would with water in a wineskin: without spilling, recognizing each drop as her responsibility and valuing the weight, the value, of each one.

He had shamed her and she bore the shame he must bear for her.

She bore the debt, but kept the respect for herself.

He had learned to recognize what that looked like in her. He had seen it in Rhuidean, in the eyes of the Wise Ones and in hers, when he had returned with his skin torn by sand, his eyes bleary with salt, but his back straight, Moiraine in his arms.

Had seen in her , after another test to prove herself worthy.

To prove herself worthy of him.

To accompany him.

To advise him, teach him, observe him and do everything in her power to prevent him from failing to ji'e'toh.

And he had cracked the code.

An act of toh . 

Not just with her. With the world. With the People of the Spear. With every woman who wore the veil and believed that the Car’a’carn would guide not only with strength, not with selfishness , but with wisdom.

He had upset the balance, placing his personal desire above his duty to the world.

And he would do it again .

Light, he would do it again.

He would do it again, because he could see in Moiraine's eyes the same thing he saw inside himself; the same thing that had done everything , anything else, seem small. He could see it in her along with the question she hadn't dared to ask, either out of fear of the answer or out of fear of him.

Was it worth it?

The answer should be no.

But it had been thirteen weeks, and she hadn't used it against him once.

She could have.

He knew her well enough to know that thirteen weeks — three months —  was more than enough time for her to familiarize herself with the Sakarnen — if she hadn’t already done so, in the years before, when she was another person. For her to learn everything she needed to know. To master its use until it felt like she’d had it all along. To march on Tear, where she knew full well he was, and destroy what he’d been fighting to build.

But she didn't.

She didn’t.

And how pathetic it was, Rand let out a small chuckle, that he was buried in trouble, being poked from every angle by politicians — light, he hated the politics he had been dragged into — who wanted to hold on to their own perks and powers as much as possible and ignore the glaring poverty in the city, who were persecuted and had more enemies than he could count, and yet, still, it was the thought that Lanfear had not made a move against him since he had handed the Sakarnen into those lovely — dangerously lovely —hands of hers that floated through his mind all the time. Involving him, even as he tried to figure out how to do what needed to be done, how to fulfill what the Wheel had ordained for him.

Light, Rand sighed, even remembering the countless meetings made his head hurt.

It would be so much easier if he just had to die.

Instead, he needed to reign.

He sighed, letting his eyes drift over the tapestry hanging on the marble wall. The Dragon Banner had been displayed atop of the Stone of Tear the second they’d stepped through the doors — what was left of the Heart of the Stone’s doors — to find half the city watching them — the other half of the Stone’s Defenders having scattered across the Stone of Tear, trying to figure out how he’d gotten to the Heart of the Stone from the inside out — in awe, the sun breaking through the clouds, One Power made into shape, and he’d barely been able to make out the shape of the dragon on the very banner he own with his eyes as blurry as they were, too busy stifling a sob to keep his eyes from welling up.

Now, although it was not the Dragon Banner that hung on the walls of the great hall, he could clearly see what should be his representation in the various tapestries that decorated the hall. The flag of Tear— three white crescents tilted on a field half red, half gold, with the gold facing the mast— was aligned parallel to a golden dragon on a field of black.

It was, in his opinion, a waste of resources, but he was hardly the most experienced in politics and imperial tactics, so he had let Moiraine do as she pleased.

He had more serious matters than discussing where his flag would be.

Like the twenty High Lords who, he had discovered, despised him as much as he did them — a lot . 

He needed them, though.

He could not unite the nations for the Last Battle without Tear. And to do that, he needed to stabilize Tear, which was, in conclusion, the source of his current discomfort.

The first thing he had done, as king — or whatever title he was now given — was to feed the poor. 

Evidently, it had displeased.

It seemed, Rand sighed, clenching his fist, knuckles whitening, that he was expected to go blind. Was this what the world wanted of him now? Not the sword, not the Car’a’carn, not the Dragon-marked man, but the politician? The weaver of deals? The peacemaker of vain nobles who would rather waste what they had than feed the hungry at the wall gate, on the quays, eating rotten fish and trying to survive another day?! Nobles who feared losing their halls and their lands more than the End of All Things?

The thought made his stomach turn.

And yet he could not back down.

He couldn't let them see the heartbreak, the disgust  that he felt as he sat at a large table, drinking an expensive wine and pretending not to know that of the twenty men and women sitting at the table, only one of them was playing the game in his favor. 

Daes Dae’mar, she had called, whispered to him at the foot of his bed, when the disgust became too much for him to hold and a glass or two had exploded onto the table, staining the wood as if it were blood and thankfully, shutting up those who spoke of people as if they were rats.

The Game of Houses, where political and social maneuvering was employed by the nobility in pursuit of status and wealth; to bring about the downfall of those they deemed unworthy. She could play it well, Rand had discovered; he had a name now for what Moiraine Sedai had been doing since the second she met him, playing the game for him while he waited to learn how to play it himself.

It seemed like the time for learning was over.

Rand took a slow breath, forcing his chest to expand as if he could force his soul to remain inside his body. The wine sat in the crystal goblet like congealed blood, untouched, and the conversation around him was an irritating murmur, sharp words wrapped in well-practiced smiles.

It was a barbed wire stretched between him and his enemies—and, Light, everyone at that table was his enemy, even the ones who called themselves allies.

“Rand al’Thor.” The voice was sweet, polite, drawling. Highness disguised as servility. “The People are grateful for your generosity to those less fortunate.” One of the ladies, the one with the calmest eyes—false patience that he could see crack each time someone challenged her, false acceptance—inclined her head, her long earrings swinging like thin blades.

He looked up, staring at her for a second, long enough to make her squirm, but he did not answer. Silence, here at this table, he discovered, was a weapon as sharp as Callandor. He did not answer, not because there was no answer, but because any answer would be thrown back at him, twisted, perverted, tangled in the Daes Dae’mar until, before he knew it, he found himself struggling to escape his own tongue.

And yet, as he looked at her and saw the mask so similar to so many others—the veneer of politeness over fear, contempt, arrogance — Rand found himself thinking, again, about what he shouldn't.

In the Sakarnen.

In what he had done.

In the woman who had not destroyed him with it.

Lanfear.

Even now, even here, he could almost feel the light press of silk against his skin, the whisper of her voice. She was everything she said she was — and everything she didn’t. Dangerous, ambitious, ravenous…and yet it wasn’t disgust he felt when it was her playing a game like this. When it was her hiding what she meant in words she didn’t really consider.

Maybe, Rand considered, it was because she didn’t hide that glint in the corners of her eyes, even when she was playing.

The emotion of the hunt.

He assumed so, that he would also be a hypocrite, along with all the other things he was becoming.

Sometimes, he blinked, he couldn’t not think how easy it would be to just lay down on his bed and never woke up. Leave the world to those who wanted to live on it to fix it. Just close his eyes and just die.

A slight cough interrupted his thoughts and he blinked again, turning back to the place where his body was. Moiraine leaned forward, her blue eyes cold, scanning every face, every expression around the table as precisely as she held a blade. Even now, after everything, after Rhuidean, after Siuan, after Lanfear and the Sakarnen, after the betrayal they dared not name — to recognize — she remained by his side.

Not out of blind loyalty — Moiraine didn’t have that to him, never had, and he had wondered how far she would let him go before she made good on that long-held threat; before she used that knife not on his enemies but on him. Sometimes, he really wanted to test it. See if it would be easier. —but out of necessity.

Necessity to the world.

He cleared his throat, finally breaking the silence, and the conversations slowly ceased.

“My words stand.” His voice sounded firmer than it felt; Rand supposed he was learning, after all. “The gates of the city will remain open. No man, woman, or child will starve while I sit on this Stone.”

A murmur ran among the nobles, low and displeased, and one of the High Lords frowned, his lips trembling as if he had bitten into something bitter.

“The generosity… my Lord… is admirable.” He bowed slightly, the word “Lord” spitting out as if it were bitter in his mouth. “But I fear that such measures will attract more… indigents… and provoke disturbances.” His lips curled. “Considering that your stay here will not be… lifelong , my Lord, Tear will need stability.”

Rand swirled the cup in small, lazy circles on the table.

It wasn't a lie.

He wouldn't be able to keep Tear as he wanted, break the city's operating model once and for all, without ensuring that he wouldn't end up leaving  everyone hungry.

He needed allies.

More allies.

Tear's maritime fleet was a more than advantageous asset, but years of internal politics focused on maintaining Tear as a maritime and commercial power had isolated the city. Years of choosing to avoid compromising political alliances, choosing to control their own affairs and protect themselves with what they had, had left the city dependent on the same strategy, as if the entire city were made of stone—strategies, decisions, politics—and unchanging. 

That wouldn't work.

Not if he wanted to leave behind a better world.

A world worth living in.

There had been children , Rand recalled.

Hungry, thin children, leaning against the dock, whose thin, bruised hands — bruised from work — had reached out to him the first time he'd stepped onto the dock, begging for food. They'd held out their hands to him, but he'd seen the way they stiffened when he'd reached out, bracing for a blow when all he'd give them was a coin.

No, he decided.

It wouldn't be like that.

His body could belong to the world, and his hands could have been chosen to hurt, to kill , but he would let them heal a bit before letting them rest.

“Ignoring suffering is not stability.” He finally stated, quietly and coldly. He had to be cold, he had learned. There was no respect at the table, and where there was no respect, it would be necessary to show position. “My presence will not, in fact, be for life. But my name will.” Rand straightened his shoulders, staring at him. “And it is still mine to decide how to display it.”

He didn’t have to look long to see the way some of the men around the table shifted uncomfortably. Glasses were raised, he noticed, wine slowly brought to their lips, feigned indifference a shield.

Rand rested his elbows on the table, intertwining his fingers.

“Stability will not come by closing the doors, or by refusing to feed those you call your children. If need be, I will go down to the city myself and feed them.” Moiraine shifted slightly where she stood, the movement subtle and quick, just enough for him to notice her silent approval. “This is non-negotiable.”

The last word irritated them, Rand noticed.

As he expected it to do.

One of them leaned forward, varnishing his voice with a thin layer — very thin — of courtesy.

“With all due respect, Rand… this is not the traditional way to rule Tear. The people… respect strength. Not charity.”

Rand smiled. A cool curve of his lips that didn't reach his eyes.

“Then you will learn to respect both.”

Silence weighed on the table, stretching out, heavy and suffocating.

Rand was not frightened.

He had grown accustomed to the noise in his mind; silence was a gift he could not buy enough of.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, his gaze returning for a moment to the tapestry. How many symbols of himself did he need to see before he stopped being surprised by the weight they represented? To get used to that?

The Dragon.

The Car’a’carn.

Everything he didn't want to be.

And yet, there he was.

“Let’s not pretend this table is made up of allies,” he murmured, his voice cutting through the silence like steel, cold and direct, and he could clearly see the way some of the men around him widened their eyes. Some—the women, for the most part, hid their surprise better. “I don’t expect you to like me. I don’t need you to like me. I just need you to understand what's going on here.”

The words hung in the air like a threat, though he knew they were just the harsh truth.

“And what exactly,” One of the women at the head of the table, bolder than the others, more brave , he said. “Is it happening, my Lord?”

He let that smile return to his lips.

He let the part that was most hidden inside him come out.

“I’m taking what’s mine.” The words came from deep within, and they didn’t taste as good in his mouth as he knew they would in theirs, but Rand forced them out anyway. He kept his voice low, though. Shouting was less effective, seemed less dangerous , than to keep calm; he’d learned that from her, in those shared dreams in the Aiel Waste, when she’d been deliberately teaching him once they were up and running, criticizing him based on their own interactions. It worked, he noticed, saw the way a stiffening ran across the table, and suppressed that idiotic urge to tell her. “This is a lost battle.”

He continued, leaning forward a little.

“You lost it the day I walked through the gates of the Heart of the Stone, and Callandor answered to my hand. You lost it when the Stone fell… when no wall, no Defender, no tradition managed to prevent what was coming. What was foretold that would come.” He let his eyes roam slowly from one face to the other, steady, relentless. “Now you can go on playing your games, plotting in secret, whispering in the shadows… I don’t care.” He shrugged. “But understand this: the Stone of Tear is mine. Tear is mine. And the people you prefer to ignore, eating rotten fish on the docks, are mine."

Rand leaned back again, seeing the slight tightening of the jaw on the face of the Lady who had asked, the way her cheeks burned slightly.

Not out of shame, he knew.

Anger.

“You can respect the force if you want. Or you can work with me,” he added, and realized for the first time that his voice sounded as cold, as sharp as crystal. Like Callandor. “But make no mistake. This is not a debate. Not yet.” He blinked slowly. “One day, it will be. Now?! I will do what is necessary, and you will do it with me, one way or another.”

Around the table, there was no response, and Rand set his jaw, refusing to budge. To appear anything other than what it was. He saw, slowly, the change happening; a subtle movement of a tightly clenched fist, slowly undoing. A silent conversation between the two councilors at the head of the table, before one of them nodded in agreement.

A silent acceptance spread across the table.

“And may we know, my Lord, what will you do?”

Rand contemplated the question for a second. He closed his eyes, feeling the tapestry of reality weaving itself around him, like threads he could not cut, could not weave any other way.

But… what if he could?

The idea came, whispering and dark and quick, entering his mind as if by a small arrow. A thin, almost imperceptible gap, but one that had been noticed.

What if he could?

Rand took a deep breath, to dispel the thought, but it persisted, subtle and dangerous as he let silence fall over the table once more, as he left the Council of High Lords to await a response.

Wasn't he the Dragon Reborn? Wasn't he the one who would face the End of All Things?

If anyone could break the pattern…

No.

No.

He lifted his head, realizing he had lowered it slightly only after doing so, hardening his gaze; letting it burn into that tapestry.

He couldn't afford that. Not now, not ever.

The price would be too high.

Unspeakable .

There were other things he could do, Rand remembered, preparing to say the words. Things he had to do. Things that were within his power that would hurt his body but keep his soul.

Tapestries to paint.

His voice was steady when he spoke.

His words echoed loudly like the creaking rock beneath his knees had done, thirteen weeks ago.

“Conquer Andor.”

~

For the first time in a long time, Matrim Cauthon didn't know what to say.

Rand knew this was the case because he had already opened his mouth and started babbling under his breath five times before he changed his mind, closed it, and started thinking of something else to say. 

He could have helped him, but the truth was he didn't have much to say.

When he finally did, Rand decided that maybe he should have helped, because he definitely wasn't prepared for the words he chose to say.

“Your girlfriend was in my dreams last night.”

Rand's eyes widened, lifting them from where they had been—perched on that same tapestry in the center of the room, rethinking the same thoughts, even though night had fallen and he had already slept and woken again, the moon high in the sky—and returning them to where Mat lay, half-slumped in a soft armchair, a glass of wine held in his joined hands between his open legs, so quickly that he felt dizziness flood him from the unexpected stiffness of the movement.

Mat looked up at him, keeping his eyes locked on hers, and for an instant, the way his heart broke at the mere sight of the possibility must have shown on his face, because his eyes widened.

“To talk!” He almost shouted the words. “Your girlfriend was in my dreams to talk! For the love of the Light, Rand,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead. “I’m not trying to steal your woman, don’t look at me like that .” He grumbled, muttering under his breath, but Rand caught the words anyway. “Too crazy even for me.”

Rand lowered his face, slightly embarrassed by the way his cheeks heated, but his lips still parted in a smile, almost amused by the unlikelihood of the situation.

“Maybe next time choose a different way to start?!” He suggested, rubbing his forehead lightly. “I’m a little—”

“Too beaten and whipped to think straight?!” Mat finished, tilting his head to the side, a quick, thin smile, fleeting, appearing and disappearing quickly on his lips. “Nearly scared me to death too.” He grumbled. “I hope it’s a one-time thing, I don’t know if my heart can handle another visit.”

Rand snorted, but the words stung.

Eight months.

He’d been trying for almost eight months, but that wall remained as firm, as powerful and insurmountable, as it had been the first time he’d tried to pull her into his dream and she’d refused. He knew she was alive now, which had at least silenced that voice in his head—the one that haunted him, telling him she was dying, alone, suffering and bleeding in the middle of nowhere, hating him for what he’d said to her on what, before Tear, had been their last encounter—but the hole was still open inside him, still calling out to her every day, still longing to hold her in his arms every night; still longing for her.

Still wondering if she would just disappear and he would never see her again, even after he had proven to her that he loved her enough to accept her; that he loved her enough to risk the world; again.

And she appeared to Mat.

The Wheel really was cruel, he almost laughed.

“I know I got this as a gift,” Mat held up the silver fox necklace hanging around his neck. “But I’m not sure from whom. I can’t remember how. I spent those months in Tar Valon — before you came back — trying to figure it out;  trying to remember. She told me…” He paused, rubbing a knuckle against his lips, teeth grazing the skin. “She told me that if I know what to ask now, I’ll get more answers than I’m asking for. That there’s something sleeping in the back of my head, something I should know but have forgotten.” Mat shook his head, turning to him. “That you need to take me there, and that you should know what to ask too.”

Rand frowned in confusion.

“What does that mean?!”

“I don’t know, mate, it’s your girlfriend.” He grumbled, raising his glass to his lips. He grumbled before Rand had a chance to respond. “Couldn’t she have just said the damn words she wanted to say?”

“It’s not really her style.” Rand found himself answering, a smile tugging at his lips of its own accord. He blinked, biting his lip rapidly, trying to think. “That necklace…” He paused, the thought building on its own, unraveling for him. “She took it off before she used the One Power on you.” Rand paused again. They hadn’t acknowledged what he’d done once, even after so long, even though he knew they each had words to say. Words that were certainly not favorable, and that he deserved to hear. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

“I doubt you could do anything about it.” He muttered, dismissing the words with a wave of his free hand. “ That it’s not a woman you can control.” He snorted. “You did warn us, though.”

Rand tried not to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly.

“The point is, Lanfear doesn’t exactly strike me as the type to go around doing favors…” Mat went on, knowing him well enough not to pursue the subject, or too uncomfortable to do so when he didn’t know how far he might go, which side he’d choose. It was a real concern now, Rand blinked, the thought bitter on his tongue; that they couldn’t tell if he’d recognize her for what she was, or if he’d set her apart again as if she were just a woman. Mat kicked a rug aside, feigning a disinterest they both knew wasn’t there. “Which means whatever this is, it’s important. Probably dangerous, too.”

Rand sighed, closing his eyes, rubbing his forehead before letting the back of his head fall against the back of the chair.

Light, he wanted to sleep for about two years.

It had been months since he had had a good night's sleep, overwhelmed by the various problems that came with occupying a king's seat.

King , Rand tested the word.

He didn't feel like one.

He doubted he would ever feel it.

One more thing, he sighed, that he had no voice or choice over.

“What else did she say?”

“Smiled at me in that crazy way, all teeth and danger , and almost made me shit my pants.” Mat grumbled, and where he stood, eyes still closed, Rand couldn’t resist a smile of his own. He knew that smile well. What it meant. She liked him; the thought had made something warm in his chest, and it wasn’t jealousy, but something else. A warm, soft, comfortable feeling of knowing she liked someone he loved. Part of his family. “Something about a price; that I already know the way, that I paid the price, but I didn’t get what’s mine.” Mat shrugged, even though Rand couldn’t see the movement. “Some nonsense about luck.”

Rand opened his eyes where they were, all at once.

“The Stone.” Rand found himself muttering. “The Stone of Tear. She said—that night, she said something about luck.” He blinked, pushing back his chair and standing, trying to remember the words. They had jumbled together in his mind, like a ball of yarn, but Rand could still hear them, echoing in his mind. “She said—” ‘you are an interesting, lucky, man’.” Rand’s eyes widened slightly. “Min told me, before we get out of Tar Valon, that there is a curve all around us both; like a hand that pushes us when we need to go to a place, to a time, and that we must let it guide us.” The next words were a whisper. “When there is an encounter we need to have.”  

Mat lowered his glass, giving up halfway on bringing it to his lips.

Rand saw the exact moment he understood what he meant.

Inside him, something began to burn, churning in his stomach until it burned brightly enough for him to walk—a step forward—trying to smother the burning.

“I knew the way,” Mat murmured, his eyes widening slightly. Rand pressed his hand to his chest, trying to touch the flesh, the heart that for some reason was beating desperately. “I’ve never been to Tear before.” Matt continued, whispering, low and sure, his hand gripping the necklace around his neck tightly. “But I knew the way to the Heart of the Stone.” His eyes widened even more. “That wasn’t bloody luck , was it?!"

Rand didn't wait for Mat to say anything else before grabbing his coat, which was tossed unpretentiously on the table, half-curved over his chest, and flying out the door. His steps moved of their own accord, heading down a path he hadn't known he needed to take.

Down and down, one door at a time, until he stand before and see the Great Holding of Tear.

Rand didn't stop until that feeling inside him told him to.

There was a door made of red curtains.

A red arch portal.

A door to another world.

~

Rand rubbed his forehead, trying to rub away the pain that was slowly beginning to spread through it, his eyes darting quickly across the sky.

There was something strange with Caemlyn, as Elayne had indeed just confirmed.

She had — Rand had little interest in how or where — found a ter’angreal that enhanced her skills with Tel'aran'rhiod, and while she was nowhere near Egwene's proficiency or innate ability, it was good enough that any information deemed vital didn't have to be dragged out for days until it reached the right ears.

The original idea had been Egwene's, something that hadn't surprised Rand at all but had made him proud.

The instability in the White Tower had not come as a surprise, and the quiet— for a short time, he would wager — division that had settled among the Aes Sedai had left them uneasy. Egwene had dragged him into a dream, some several weeks ago, to inform him that, upon news that the Dragon Reborn had claimed Callandor, the current Amyrlin Seat had officially ordered him captured and she could no longer remain in Tar Valon; No Aes Sedai had ever crawled across Tear’s protons—yet—but the thought made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up—in fear or anger, Rand couldn’t tell exactly.

It had become routine, though, a meeting made of dreams, each of them dragged from their beds to wherever Egwene chose, once every seven days.

Today, it had been Elayne who had dragged them into a dream.

A hill, broad and gentle, covered with low grass and wildflowers.

Pretty.

Her hair seemed to catch fire against the sun as she hunched over the pale stone table she had placed at the very top of the hill. The sky, stained a mix of amber and lavender, made the green dress she wore bring out the color of her hair and eyes even more.

She   was pretty, it was nothing new.

But her eyes were frightened as she spoke, her voice low and fast, as if she were afraid to say the words, even in the dream world. Beside her, Nynaeve’s jaw was set tightly, occasionally interrupting to add bits of information, bits she had forgotten, while Moiraine pushed her hair back in that fidgety way — one of her only gestures that betrayed nervousness; the trembling when she had to channel had stopped —and Egwene tapped her fingers against the stone in response to the words she heard.

From where he stood a little farther away from the table, hovering just where the hill rose into a near cliff, Rand could hear the words perfectly well. 

“…the queen is on a political meeting with allies.”

“My… my stepfather… Thom Merrilin told me he doesn’t exist. I’ve been trying to understand, to find something but — It doesn’t make sense, I mean how —I remember him. The first time I channeled, he brought me a cake, sat with me, and let me talk about it for hours because he knew I was anxious, waiting for this for years. It does not have as —”

Ah, Rand sighed.

The question of memories.

Fragile little things, he had discovered when he walked out that red door.

When entered with a friend and left with a general.

Rand wasn't sure what to expect, but Mat seemed oddly well-adjusted for someone who had suddenly acquired years' worth of memories — hundreds, even, thousands — of military combat three days ago. 

It suited him, though. As if he had been born for it.

Maybe he had, Rand remembered.

Each of them was born for something.

“Be careful with him,” Egwene murmured, firm and direct. Like a leader. That was what she was now, Rand remembered. “There’s something wrong about him. I sensed it the last time he was in Tar Valon. With your brothers. Something… dangerous.”

Elayne did not reject the advice, but from where he stood, half turned, Rand could see that the words had not struck as deeply as they should have. She let out her breath slowly, as if breathing in again was harder than anything, her hands resting on the stone clenched, her knuckles whitening for an instant before she effortlessly relaxed them, her eyes searching for him. She found him, and whatever she saw brought her back to the table again, where the conversation was still going on, Lan and Mat hunched over a map while Elayne, Nynaeve, and Moiraine murmured something he didn't want to hear. 

Egwene had her eyes on him, he noticed; the anger had long since dissipated, and where there had been pain and disappointment and icy fury, there was now only a mixture of affection and pity. She would be angrier if she knew exactly what he had done. If someone had chosen to tell her what he had sacrificed — if making it obvious that the Dragon Reborn was not so firm in his duty would not have opened up more trouble than they could handle, he knew that it would have happened.

That they would all know exactly what he had done.

But it was dangerous to let people know that he was struggling a little too much to stay in the way, and instead of anger, what was in her eyes was pity, recognizing perfectly the way that, with each meeting, his shoulders seemed to weigh more heavily, his eyes deeper; his soul tired and his head full of voices he wanted to silence.

He preferred the anger.

Rand turned his eyes to that spot again, letting the words sink into his ears, pretending that that look didn't hurt.

Golden light spread across the open fields below, the sea spreading far ahead in his vision, making the sight so similar to the one he held in his heart — that rock he went to when he wanted to be himself again; when he wanted to be just a man — that he couldn't help but notice.

It felt like in that memory.

That memory where she had smiled, happy and free, held tightly in Ishamael's arms.

Elan , he recalled.

She would look beautiful there too.

She looked beautiful anywhere, but she would look beautiful there; with him .

The sun would burn orange at her back as she looked up at him, her eyes shining, mischievous and dangerous in that way that was hers, the fabric of whatever dress she had chosen for the day fluttering around her body in the wind, and she would look him in the eye and whatever she would say, he would have to fight to understand, caught up in her just as Lews had once been.

Rand forced himself to look away, swallowing hard.

The dream was changing, he realized. Subtly. Elayne didn’t have as much control as he did, as Egwene did, and it was common for details to slowly fall into place as others will grow clearer, firmer. A stronger wind; Egwene liked to breathe, and the stronger the wind, the stronger the smell of wet grass, of the few trees scattered around. A bird flying too close; Nynaeve had a better control of the One Power now, he remembered, holding onto it a little more each day. Still not enough to change the dream, but enough to make a small change.

Nothing abrupt, he knew, kneeling on one knee to grasp the flower that had blossomed among the grass; a dark red rose, opening subtly among the grass and the weeds.

Details.

Little glimpses of who they were, deep down in their souls.

“Huh...Rand?” Someone murmured — Mat, his mind supplied with a shake, trying hard to remember the name; to remember the present and get out of the future — forcing him out of his thoughts, and Rand looked up from where he’d been locked on that dark red rose, thumb tracing the half-wet petal, to meet his, brow furrowing, lips parting to ask what had been said that he’d missed.

He saw the answer before he had asked the question.

He stood up slowly, his heart threatening to burst before he even had a clear reason to, his eyes slowly widening the more he felt the air change, the dream change, that feeling flooding him from head to toe. 

He choked — too loudly, too much fragile .

It wasn't white that she was wearing, but it was close.

Something gray, bathed in silver, as if she had made it out of stars and moon, clear and light and perfectly suited to her, her hair tied in a bun on top of her head in the same way he had seen her in Rhuidean. 

Her eyes still burned just the same, and where she stood, Rand let that rose fall.

“Rand…” Elayne murmured where she stood, low, tense, and slightly confused, feeling perfectly the way Egwene and Moiraine stiffened like stone where they stood. “... What did you do?”

Rand frowned in confusion.

“I didn’t do anything.”

She let out a little laugh where she stood, melodious and dangerous and provocative and perfect and Rand tried not to look like the lovesick idiot he was as she moved, steps light and easy, perfectly unaffected as she stepped a little closer.

“You were thinking of me.” She stated, her voice light and mocking, as if it were too obvious to her to have to explain. “Brought  — dragged — me here.”

Rand swallowed, feeling his cheeks burn, his eyes dropping to the ground for a second before looking back up at her.

“It was…” He coughed. “It was an accident.”

Her smile grew, pleased and arrogant and almost proud.

“You’ve gotten better in the dream world.” She winked in amusement, one hand lightly adjusting the perfectly immaculate skirt of her dress. “A few centuries, and who knows, maybe you’ll almost be able to break that barrier.”

Rand resisted the urge to whimper, like a frustrated child, which he most definitely was not; a noise certainly far too unworthy of a king. The words, however, he could not resist saying, slipping out before he could even try .

“You’re going to make me wait centuries?!” He grumbled, rubbing his forehead in frustration. “You know I’ll probably be dead in a few months, right?!”

Hopefully.

She laughed, loud and sincere, bright, full of that dangerous lightness that felt like an invitation or a promise or a threat — he could never tell which. Maybe it was all three at once — that laugh she got when something really amused her, and Rand tried not to think how strange they were, that this was her reaction to the words and that smiling was his reaction to hers.

“Maybe.” She shrugged as she answered, the movement so fluid it seemed part of the wind itself that was now beginning to sweep down the hill, making her dress billow beside her thin body. “Or maybe not.” She purred at him. “Don’t be so pessimistic, Lews; I’ve told you it makes you look older.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” He said, more to himself than to her, choosing to ignore her choice of name, his eyes wandering to the horizon where the sky was beginning to dissolve, probably too unstable with her will being present, destroying and subjugating all others.

Her answer came quick, sharp and true as a blade; Rand tried not to flinch.

“Don’t bring me here next time, then.”

Rand closed his eyes for a second, his hand still suspended in midair, even though he hadn't dared to actually touch it, to close that small distance between them.

He could feel the way Egwene was watching him behind him, tense, her hands flat on the stone. It was odd, Rand thought, that she hadn’t torn herself out of the dream yet, that she hadn’t come out the second Lanfear had appeared. 

She probably would have, if she was still the same from the Aiel Waste, knowing that she couldn't defeat her — much less in her domain — but still brave enough to know better than to stay there and try to contain herself. 

It had been months, now, but he knew better than to think she'd forgotten. That she hadn't yet felt the repercussions of what she'd suffered at Lanfear’s hands. She was probably staying so she could find out if there was more trouble to worry about, he supposed. To try to give herself an advantage if Lanfear decided to kill them all.

The thought made him frown, and he opened his eyes to focus on anyone but her.

Beside the table, Elayne looked…small, pressed against a watching Aviendha, her eyes blazing and daggering him, all the non spoken judgment clear in those big green eyes. Nynaeve had stopped speaking, her head tilted slightly, her eyes wide but her jaw set. She had never met her, Rand remembered. Not really. She probably had no idea of ​​the danger she faced, looking all beautiful and carefree. 

Lan knew better, and his hand found his sword, even tough it would be useless, Nynaeve’s shoulders bumping against his as he moved between her and Moiraine and closer to Lanfear.

Moiraine… Rand remembered, his eyes widening again.

She looked terrified.

Hard as a rock, but her hands shaking like a green stick at her sides, her body tense as if it would crack with a touch of her hand.

Lanfear had seen it too, Rand knew, seen it perfectly , her eyes darkening as she set them on the Aes Sedai, her lips stretching into a dangerous smile, violent , which made Moiraine suck in a sharp breath, never taking her eyes off her for a second.

Waiting.

Afraid, he knew. 

The kind of fear that settles in the pit of your stomach and locks your muscles, knocking all the air out of your chest — maybe that was exactly why she had sucked in a breath, trying to keep something in — and making the skin tingle as if it were about to go out, waiting for the blow, suffering in terror with the wait.

She was playing with her, Rand knew; he saw it in the way she moved her neck to the side slowly, like an animal about to bite and tear off a piece, the world around them slowly going silent, quieting down as she stood before them, perfectly unchanged.

Silently.

Cruelly.

Delighting in the perspective.

What could happen if she wanted.

How Moiraine knew, deep down, that she couldn't beat her.

Not alone.

Not there.

Never.

Nowhere.

Rand swallowed, clenching his hand tightly, his fist finally at his side.

I accepted every part of you. 

He took a deep breath.

I accepted you. 

And all I asked…was that you accept me, too.

He growled an order he didn't have enough power over her to give, embedded in her name, nothing more, and carried it with feeling so she knew he was asking, no matter how much it sounded like anything else. 

Her smile grew.

He growled a little more firmly.

“ Lanfear.”  

“Oh, would you relax?!” She rolled her eyes at him, letting her gaze rest on his for a second. “If I wanted to kill her, she’d be dead long before that pleasant encounter of ours in Cairhien.” She winked at Moiraine, and Rand saw the way she stiffened a little more. “Oh, you thought I didn’t know where you were?! Ishy knew all along, so It should be obvious that I did it too. Knew everything. Saw everything too. All those days of wanting so badly to just…disappear…” She smiled a little wider. “It’s a horrible thing to be cut off from the One Power, isn’t it? Good thing he hadn’t done anything… permanent."

The threat was obvious in her voice.

Rand sighed.

“ Stop it." 

She made a small noise of disgust, but Rand said a silent prayer as she moved her eyes to the next poor person who had been chosen to be poked.

“Hello again, Matrim Cauthon.” She murmured, purred like a damn cat and Rand felt his jaw clench tightly, his body stiffening, tensing slightly. Mat didn't respond with words, raising a quick hand in the air as if her presence didn't surprise him; as if it were normal. Rand tried to drown the jealousy that was beginning to spread through his chest, flooding him — questioning if it was — , and not drown in it. “So you managed to ask the right questions after all.”

Mat made a noise, a snort, where he stood.

“ Could have had a proper warning.”

Lanfear smiled at him.

“You could; couldn’t you?!”

Rand tried not to smile, that thread of comfort he had felt earlier rising to the surface until it swallowed the jealousy that insisted on rising. His hand found the curve of her waist automatically, without his order, pulling her slightly closer to him, and it wasn't until he felt the heat of her skin that he realized the dress had an open back.

This time, he knew he had been high enough that he didn't even try to pretend it was anything other than adoration he felt.

Her eyes sparkled as she turned them to him.

His fingers trembled slightly where they touched her skin, but he didn't move them from there.

If she wanted them gone, they would be, and he wanted them exactly where they were.

One move, Rand took a deep breath, was all he needed. One move and he would have her pressed against him like he truly wanted, warm and firm and alive, those thin arms wrapping around the back of his neck as he pulls her into a hug, as he circle her waist and hold her against him hard enough to hurt before pressing his mouth to hers and kissing her until she forgot to breathe.

She would follow, he knew, wet his lips, not realizing it, unable to not do it, unable to miss the way her eyes followed the movement, slowly and undisguisedly, until the tip of his tongue was hidden inside his mouth again.

She would let him, because there was a very simple reason, very obvious , for her to have accepted his call this time, after having rejected him for months.

He had called her without realizing it, summoning her to his side as he watched the sunset — while watching the sunset in a war meeting — like a stupid man in love and unable to control himself, and all the allies he really care about were there to see.  

He had chosen her over half of his allies the last time.

And she wanted the other half to see exactly what those had seen when he did it.

How helpless he was against her.

It should fill him with rage.

It should irritate him.

But he didn't.

Rand let out a slow breath, his eyelids closing for a second too long, long enough to feel her breath, warm, light, so close he could mistake it for his own. Her scent—that damned scent he still couldn’t name—surrounded him, wrapping around him like a web as she took a step closer, and Rand forced his eyes open, his lids fluttering.

“You are lucky, Rand al’Thor…” She murmured at last, with tart sweetness, leaning forward slightly until her chest was almost touching his — a head shorter as she was, her blue eyes shining, she looked like the most beautiful thing he had ever seen — as if confessing a secret, though her voice was loud enough for everyone to hear. “... that I love you very much.”

Rand closed his eyes at the words, trying not to falter too much.

Trying not to go completely limp, even though the way his shoulders relaxed, his body almost threatening to melt into hers, still pressed lightly against him, was blatantly obvious.

How can I —

“You need to get your pretty ass to Caemlyn,” she ordered, any sweetness gone from her voice as she pulled away; Rand took a step back—almost a jump—surprised by the abrupt change of subject, by how easy it was to lose himself in her even when she didn’t say a word, trying to cut himself off from her. “Rahvin is making a mess.”

Rand frowned.

Trying to think.

"Rahvin?"

“The queen’s husband, of course.” She blinked at him, a glint of pleasure shining in the corners of her eyes. Still half-sitting at the table, Rand saw the way Elayne stiffened completely. “He does a good job when he tries to. Unfortunately for him,” She curled her lips into a smile. “He’s equally bad in choosing his allies.”

“He’s a Forsaken.” Rand understood, his eyes flying to Elayne.

She had lost the color, any red he had seen in her cheeks earlier, fading into an unusual and undeniable paleness.

“He is a strategist.” She corrected, tilting his head slightly. “He likes to come from behind, or below, and though the queen has been under his control for a considerable while, you’ll soon hear that she’s disappeared. In two, three days, perhaps. Then a rumor that she’s dead, which she very well may be, since Rhavin scared the hell out of her.” She rolled her eyes. “There’s a limit to how well he can do things. He slipped at some point, and she came out of the compulsion. Which means, if you don't take the throne of Andor, he will.”

“The throne of Andor is mine." Elayne growled, finally moving, her hand slamming down on the stone table hard. “I am the princess-heir.”

“You’re a child.” Lanfear dismissed her, giving her a quick look. “You don’t have enough allies — or skill — or power in your name, symbol enough on you, to hold that throne for three days; Rhavin will have you under his compulsion before you reach the door.” She shrugged. “Or just kill you, if he’s in a bad mood; and he will be. He really doesn't like to lose.”

“Neither do you.” Moiraine murmured, finally speaking, her voice firm. “I took the best hand against you in the Waste. So why are you helping now?”

She laughed.

Rand tried hard not to acknowledge how humiliating her reaction had been, but he still saw the way Moiraine stiffened where she stood, recognizing the gesture for what it was. Her eyes searched his, waiting for a reaction, and Rand pretended not to see the disappointment that flashed briefly in them before she buried it in ice when she didn’t find what she wanted in his eyes.

“Go to Caemlyn.” She turned to him again, ignoring the others; ignoring Moiraine , as if the words were too stupid for her to even recognize. “Take the throne. Put your banner next to the Lion, and for light’s sake, Rand, stop running around in circles: you need to be in several places at once, you don’t have time to waste on horses. Let Lews show you how to Travel. I can't teach you that; you have to flavor the weaving with something of your own, a fragment of your own essence, a memory, something from deep within your soul, and Lews never shared what he used.”

“How exactly am I supposed to do that?!” He growled, that old irritation starting to creep up inside him. Old and bitter and ugly. “Hey, Lews Therin, do you want to take over now? How about showing me how to break a world and try to kill everyone I love in the process?”

She rolled her eyes at him.

Part of him wanted to squeeze her neck tightly.

“You just have to hear, you idiot.” She tilted her head to the side slightly, those loose strands of hair in her bun floating around her face. He wanted to touch them. He wanted to touch her. “You are Lews, Rand. Not all. Not in everything. You’re still you.” She lowered her voice to something soft, almost caring. Rand sucked in a breath as she quickly scraped her finger across his cheek. “But you are the Dragon Reborn, and the Dragon is Lews. You don't ask him anything.” She stated, firm and resolute. “You allow him to speak.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Of course not, you’re not stupid.”

Rand raised an eyebrow, his lips breaking into a small smile.

“I thought I was an idiot?!”

She rolled her eyes at him again.

Part of him wanted to kiss her.

“Go to Caemlyn,” she repeated. “And then to Cairhien.” She paused, considering her words. “… Don’t go alone. Take Moiraine with you. The Winston too. You will need the strength of power.” Rand didn’t need to look to see the surprise spreading across Moiraine’s eyes; the way she glanced quickly at Nynaeve and then back at him. She turned her eyes to the first one, cold and serious. “He dies on your watch, and I will kill you.”

Moiraine stiffed again.

Rand sighed.

“Lanfear —”

“Just a… word of advice.” She cut him off, turning her eyes back to him; for a moment, the dream seemed to shake around them. “You need — you need to learn a little more, Rand. You have to dominate the One Power a little more or it will consume you. Fucking Moghedien.” She growled, anger flashing in her eyes for a second. “Sammael was supposed to teach you, not become a lesson on disembowelment himself.”

Rand noticed, and frowned as he did so, that she looked… concerned. 

Disturbed.

Worried, even, her eyes roaming his face too slowly, too tensely, to go unnoticed.

“What is it?” He murmured, his hand gripping the curve of her arm, moving down until it rested on her wrist. Her eyes flickered over the movement before settling on his again. Rand felt the crease in his forehead grow, deepen, when she didn’t respond. Something inside him clenched in response, and he lifted her hand to his lips, pressing it gently against her skin. “My soul, tell me what it is.”

He surprised her, Rand saw.

It surprised them both, his own eyes widening slightly at the affection that flowed across his lips so easily.

She blinked, once, twice, too quickly, and if she had been anyone else, if she had been anyone else and his attention had been divided on her, he would have missed it. But she wasn’t, and he wasn’t, and Rand saw perfectly well the way her lip trembled.

This time he couldn’t resist pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her tightly until her thin arms were circling his chest, her ear resting right against his heart. She melted into his arms, her body relaxing completely, and Rand decided, right then and there, that he didn’t care what people — what the world — thought of him, lowering his head to press his lips against her forehead, then resting his cheek against her soft black hair.

It still smelled the same, and for a second, Rand was in that dream again.

In that room where she curled around his body and slept, soft, carefree and safe.

She hesitated— he could tell by the way she tightened her grip on his robe before slowly letting go. He squeezed her a little tighter, silently telling her to go ahead.

“I can see it in you now,” she murmured, low, a clear whisper, but still a whisper. “I could feel it before. Like… like a different scent on you. Distant, but still there. There’s…” She paused. “There’s a weaving — ancient, almost too ancient even for me but I know it anyway —that used to be used in battle. Everything we do leaves… leaves a trail, like a scent. If you know how to use it, if you know how to weave it, it can take you anywhere. Any—” She trailed off, as if choosing her own words; as if choosing the best way to say it. “Any source .”

Rand felt a chill run down his spine, even though her hands were warm against his back.

“I used to feel it in you. Hidden. Low.” She paused. “Like a distant scent.”

He whispered the words she wanted to say.

“Now you see.”

She didn't confirm it, but she didn't need to. Rand tried not to feel that bitterness rising, lumpy in his throat.

“It’s like cracks.” She admitted at last, her voice the lowest he had ever heard her speak. “Small, almost imperceptible. Anyone else wouldn't even notice. But they spread everywhere. In your mind. In your soul.” She pulled away, slowly, lifting her head slightly to look him in the eyes. Her voice was too low, raw enough for him to know he wasn’t going to like what she was going to say. “Every time you see me, one of them grows larger in your heart.”

Rand swallowed. He already knew, of course. He could feel Lews Therin whispering in his ear, he could feel memories that weren’t his own invading his dreams, he could feel the madness spreading through him more and more with each passing second he spent staring at that tapestry, with each small moment he remembered what needed to be done.

Of what he would have to do, Saidin dripping and dripping into him, one drop at a time, the tap always running until he was too overwhelmed to keep the door closed and was swallowed up by it.

He whispered.

“Could you see it before?”

“Not like that. Not so... clearly.” She moved, her fingers tracing his forehead, as if he could pinpoint exactly where the madness was seeping in and where it was going. Her fingers were shaking, Rand noticed. Shaky and thin, but still as warm and familiar as they had always been. “Some of us can see more; it depends a lot on how much of the True Power we are allowed to access and how much we can take on the One Power itself. Elan could see more clearly. For me…before, it was like trying to see through a veil. I could still see, but not as clearly.” She sighed softly. “Now, it feels like I’ve ripped it from my eyes.”

Realization descended upon him like ice water.

Like jumping into the sea on a winter morning.

“That’s why you keep blocking me, isn’t it?! It was anger at first, because I hurt you and you wanted to hurt me back. But that’s not why you keep doing it. If you were still pissed with me, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have come.” He murmured, staring at her. “That’s why you’re running from me. Because the more I see you, the more I love you, closer I get to madness.”

She didn't answer, but Rand saw the answer in her eyes.

Rand closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing the pain.

Trying to swallow the pain.

Trying to drown out that slow realization that the more time passed, the less he ceased to exist. Less he , he was. Not Rand, not Lews either, but something in between, something contaminated .

When he spoke, his voice sounded too low.

Fearful.

“What do you see now?” He swallowed hard. “What do you see, Lanfear, when you look at me now?”

She stopped, staring at him. Rand wondered if it was just the madness she could see, or if she could also see exactly where his thoughts were going. If she could know exactly what he was feeling.

How tired he was.

Of living.

Of pretending.

If she could see;if something else was cracking inside him now, as he looked into her eyes and loved her with everything he had.

“I see you.” she murmured finally, her hand dropping from his forehead to trace his lower lip gently. Reverence, Rand decided, as the blue in her eyes shone a little brighter. Reverence and care and something he desperately wanted to call love. “I see you , Rand.”

He tried to swallow back a sob.

It still came out when she lifted her body, placing herself on the balls of her feet, to pull his face down.

It was barely a breath, light as a feather, but when her lips touched his forehead, Rand felt his legs give out; she didn’t let him fall, holding him steady with one arm in his. He didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes — that he was crying — until he felt her fingers brush against his cheek, pushing the single tear away. He forced himself to stay still, breathing deeply, trying not to let the tremor that was starting in his throat spread to the rest of his body.

Almost a secret, too quiet, too dangerous, but Rand whispered it anyway.

“ Stay. ” 

She didn't respond until he asked again.

“Mierin, stay.”

“You’ll lose if I stay.” She said, in a whisper so low only he could hear — that he hoped only he could hear; this was his. He had already shared it all with the world. He would give it all to the world. This, she , was his — and even if he knew that, even if it was true , he still wanted her to say yes.

Rand opened his eyes, breathing in slowly.

Whispered.

“I know.” 

She bit her lower lip, her head tilting a little more, her eyes dancing over his face, as if to memorize every feature, every scar, every shadow. 

As if she would never see him again.

“Not yet.” She said at last, as firmly as he had. “Let me play a game for you that you cannot; do the rest.” Rand did not know what to say to that. She did not wait for him to speak. “Go,” Lanfear said again. “Take Andor. Caemlyn first, then the rest. And learn to Travel before you waste any more time riding.”

He wanted to ask more.

He wanted to say more. 

He said what was most important.

“You know I love you, right?!” He took a deep breath, making sure the words wouldn’t be confused. That they wouldn’t be interpreted as anything other than what they were.“When I…” He stopped, his heart skipping a beat. “If I win…. If I live… Will you come find me?”

She smiled. It wasn't cruel, nor arrogant, but something sadder. 

Something that hurt.

“Always.” She said, and then, before he could respond, before he could even try to hold her again, she dissolved like mist in the wind, disappearing, leaving his hands circling nothingness.

The dream world trembled, the air becoming lighter automatically, the entire space trembling, trying to adapt to the new drop in power.

The hierarchy of wills.

Only then did he realize how long he had been holding his breath, releasing it abruptly, his hands opening at his sides, empty.

“Rand?” Egwene called, approaching slowly, as if approaching someone injured, frowning, confused. “Are you… okay?”

He did not respond immediately.

His eyes remained locked on the empty space where she had been, where her scent still lingered, where her warmth still seemed to touch his skin.

“Be safe.” He said, whispered, without even realizing that it wasn’t just a thought, that he was speaking out loud. Speaking to the air. “You really do love me, don’t you?!.”

Egwene closed her eyes tightly, exhaling through her teeth.

“She does.” That made Rand look up, his eyes widening slightly as he remembered that he wasn't actually even a little alone in that dream. “She’s a bitch and I’d love to choke her with saidar . I’m still waiting for a chance do to it. If not, I hope someone else kill her violently ; she deserves it. And I will never forget what she did to me and what it means to have you choosing her even after she did it. I think it’s the dumbest thing you could do to yourself and I think you are going to regret it, sooner or later.” Egwene grumbled, staring at him fearlessly. “But she does love you.” She paused, looking up at the sky for a second.  “I think—”

The sun had returned, warm and inviting, Rand realized, lifting his as well.

He could almost feel her lips on his skin.

Hear her voice in your ear.

I want you, Rand.

“I think she loves you more than anyone.”

It was funny, Rand blinked, almost laughed, if he hadn't suspected where that urge to laugh uncontrollably came from, that the Wheel seemed to only allowed people to accept that — her — if he no longer cared about pretending.

A choice that was no choice, again, because he would always choose the world and they would never get to that part; never go so far.

Not this time, Rand decided.

Not this life.

This time, he would no longer bother to deny, to pretend, that the price, however high it was, as long as it wasn’t the world, was it worth it to him.

That he would pay .

~

There was a door made of red curtains.

A red arch portal.

A door to another world.

To creatures who knew about what had never been said, what was yet to be asked.

The Dragon Reborn closed his eyes and let the portal take him where he needed to go.

~

How can I remove the Taint from Saidin?

~

How can I win the Last Battle and survive it?

~

How can I have Mierin Eronaile on my side after the Last Battle?

~

The two must be one. To live, you must die.

Chapter Text

His hands were stained with blood.

There was a woman at his feet.

Someone was calling his name; screaming .

Rand couldn't figure out who.

Couldn't figure out anything with a collar around his neck and handcuffs on his arms.

~

She should have listened to that part inside her that was silently, increasingly, screaming that something was wrong.

It had started in the Aiel Waste.

In the beginning, it had been easier to go unnoticed. 

Her mind was not unstable enough to see anything beyond that thread breaking inside her, imagining what could have happened and under what conditions she had died; what conditions had robbed her of a love, a life . It had been easy to let the pain blind her for longer than it had; too hard not to.

If she had known better, if she had known what this would entail, she would have left Suian hidden in the corner of her mind, in the corner of her heart, where she had always been, and worried more—much more—about his pain.

But she didn't.

And it had been easy enough to miss, so easy that she hadn't noticed until it started to become too obvious. Until the silent monster, made of shadow, despair and madness, advanced towards the two of them.

First, there was silence.

He hadn't spoken much since the Eye of the World, it was true, but it had become deeper. Cold. Long moments of silence where he would stare into space, sometimes falling silent in the middle of a conversation and seeming to fade away, as if his body were separating from his spirit and he was present but not there ; as if his spirit were wandering, spreading out over the desert and flying, each day farther, an inch more each day, until he was too far away to return without being called.

Then the eyes.

Moraine always knew that eyes said more than words.

She had learned to read them many years ago, playing a game of war and politics in the comfort of her bed, preparing to play it later across tables and kingdoms and worlds. She had learned early, still in the sculpted comfort of Cairhien, watching lords and ladies disguise their desires and intentions. She had learned to read looks as one reads war maps and he had had innocent eyes when she had met him, two years and some months ago. Eyes marked with dreams and desires, shining with every thin smile from those he loved, with every small compliment that was paid to him; eyes full of life.

Eyes that wanted to live.

Life died in his eyes slowly, a little at a time.

Fading until he began to look through people, as if they were shadows cast on a wall and he was searching for the source of the light behind them. As if they were made for a purpose; a single purpose, a reason, a justification for staying alive; for being necessary to stay alive.

Even when he spoke—and lately he spoke less and less—his voice seemed out of place, as if he heard another sound, a distant music that only he knew and to which, slowly, each day he got closer.

A rhythm that she herself was beginning to notice.

A rhythm that, every day, he looked eager to follow. 

And then came the loss of control.

At first, small lapses. A burst of impatience where before there had been only cold resignation— he rarely shouted, he had learned by playing Daes Dae’mar in Tear that shouting did not make a voice more heard. A decision made too quickly, without calculating the consequences, without evaluating who would be affected with the same diligence with which it had been done on all previous occasions.

And then came the smile.

That smile he had first shown her in the Aiel Waste, holding a dead girl in his arms, and she had let it pass without realizing the sign for what it was and that it was starting to appear much more frequently; cold, dangerous and out of control.

Six months in Andor, claiming a throne he didn't want, a crown that suffocated him, and then six more months in Cairhien, leading bloody battles, burying the dead, forging alliances and receiving victories that seemed more like condemnations and that made his eyes quickly grow dull before he straightened his body and assumed the mantle of the Dragon, had been enough to make it no longer easy to go unnoticed. 

To make it impossible to ignore.

The Reborn Dragon was giving in.

Rand al’Thor was breaking .

Not all at once, not with the crash and impact of a thread of Power snapping, not with the violence that Saidin seemed to awaken—all at once and uncontrollably—in a man, but with the same quiet inevitability with which he had let himself go everywhere he was supposed to go.

Like a candle slowly being consumed to the end of the wick.

He walked differently now, Moiraine had noticed. Upright, always, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword with a naturalness that was no longer learned — not even Lan could teach that — but instinctive, as if the steel were part of him, a cold anchor, keeping him grounded.

But his eyes… Light, those eyes.

Moiraine remembered, with painful clarity, the night he had first faced Ishamael. There had been terror in those eyes, fear, but there had also been fire, hope… humanity. Now they seemed increasingly empty. Rand’s gaze had started to pierce everything — everything and everyone — as if the presence of the people — of the world — around him were a noise, a fog he had to endure until he could finally be alone with his thoughts — or his ghosts — again.

She didn't need to ask to know who he was talking to when he thought no one was listening.

And there were moments — always in those moments when he retreated alone, after yet another decision had been made with brutal efficiency, yet another enemy felled, yet another city subjugated, yet another handful of soldiers dead — when Moiraine realized, with a chill down her spine, that Rand was no longer talking only to himself.

The silence was eating away at him.

She saw that.

She saw the look in his eyes.

She knew that look.

Moiraine knew that kind of look very well.

She had been wearing it for months after that first meeting with Ishamael. The kind of look that came from someone who wanted to die. Someone who was already dead inside, and was just waiting to fulfill one last duty before finally saying goodbye and leave; before finally — finally — get to die. 

He wore that look all the time. 

In a room full of people, in a war room, or alone in a room with the few friends he still had, it had become abundantly clear to her that Rand al'Thor wanted to die. As if, for him, the man was not worth it, was already dead and only the legend, the myth of the Reborn Dragon remained, to be used and, in the end, discarded.

The legend could not falter.

The myth could not doubt.

And so he became more and more the myth, and less and less the man.

It was sad, Moiraine knew and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, stifling the pain that threatened to leak through the cracks in that armor made of iron and fire that she wore, that in part, it was true.

That the world would not need Rand, the boy from Two Rivers.

It needed the Dragon.

But the Dragon was Rand, and he liked to stand at the edge of Cairhien’s walls and gaze at the ground, look away to the horizon, and then look back down at the ground again and she knew — she knew — that it was not the ground, but the fall, that he was contemplating.

Rand al’Thor was not weak, Moiraine knew. 

Would argue with anyone who said otherwise; he was a strong man, brave and sincere. 

But he was also an exhausted, resigned man, waiting for the rope to be wrapped around him  and almost putting it around his neck himself, in his eagerness to finally make the long march stop.

She had always known that the path of the Dragon was a lonely one.

Still, the closer he got to the end, the more she wished he wasn't alone; that he had something to want to live for.

It was inevitable, however, that his allies would disperse.

It was war, after all, and battles were not won with everyone being on the same ground.

Egwene's presence with the Aes Sedai became more necessary, more indisputable, every day, the brunette assuming her position as Amyrlin of Salidar with clarity, security and power — Suian would have made her the most powerful Throne of Amyrlin that she would have seen, if she were alive — if she had managed to get that far — and the thought, the name, no longer soured, but brought warmth to her chest as it always had. It didn't take away the pain, but it felt good, Moiraine blinked, for there were more than a few Aes Sedai who refused to bend the knee to Elaida of Avriny A'Roihan and ignore the depth of betrayal wrought at her hands. 

There were many who saw in Egwene Al’Vere the fire, the spirit and the justice necessary to be called Mother.

Egwene's ascension as Amyrlin of Salidar had been the root of Mat's finding the Pattern, drawing him to Ebou Dar, along with Elayne and Nynaeve, in search of the Bowl of the Winds and the power that the ter'angreal carried. It was a second option, one that didn't even remotely replace the original idea, but that was infinitely easier to acquire, even if it was located where Rand had no jurisdiction and it was necessary to face the Seanchan to at least to try.

The lie — the political maneuver , as Rand had called it—tasted like sand in her mouth.

But it hadn't been a question, an order , and the way his voice had sounded as he gave the order to the four who were present at the moment had been — she saw it now — an even clearer sign than the thoughtless action itself — she preferred to believe that was it; that he had not thought before acting, because the other option was to accept that he had done it consciously, and that was almost more dangerous than madness — that Rand was becoming, every day, less the man and more the king. 

Inconsequential.

Dangerous.

Unpredictable and uncontrollable.

She had accepted, however, as had everyone else, none of them willing to find out what that glow was that burned in his eyes and how far he would go for it.

For her. 

The Sakarnen was now a myth lost in time.

A sa'angreal  never found; lost in the Age of Legends.

A myth which was not worth trying to make real for those who knew the truth, as it implied facing Lanfear , Daughter of the Night, and there was no description that could encompass what she would do with it. She wasn't naive enough to believe that she really meant what she said; that Rand meant enough to her that she would let the Dragon pass, to be with the man.

She was a Forsaken, sworn to darkness.

She could say she loved him — and maybe she did, in some twisted, never to be fulfilled, way — but she couldn't be trusted.

She would never be.

Even now, more than a year after she had last appeared in flesh and blood and power, Moiraine could still feel the weight of her eye on her back. She could still feel that thread tugging at her chest, and she went to sleep and woke every day wondering if she had pulled it. She still went to sleep and woke every day pulling on the One Power before she went to bed, and touching it before she set foot on the floor, checking to see if she could still touch it.

She could still see the darkness flooding her eyes in the Stone of Tear; she could still feel the fear rising from the tips of her toes, as if that vision — as if looking into her eyes — had been imprinted within her, deep within her very connection to the One Power, and she had seen something her body could not handle, hidden in that well of darkness.

She could still hear her voice in that dream.

The laugh.

She knew she wouldn't have won if she hadn't been distracted by the way she'd cried for Suian; if the fact that she'd chosen to cry for the one who'd betrayed her hadn't angered her, reminded her of the failure of her own relationship, enough to give her enough time to pull that remnant of uncontrolled power from within her and wield that sword.

She knew she wouldn't win if she attacked her now, Sakarnen or not.

And still she waited for the moment she would betray him again; for the moment Rand would be confronted, again, with the truth that she hadn't loved him that much, when her life was on the line.

When her power was at risk.

Except now, Moiraine gasped, she was praying, weaving prayers to the Creator, to be wrong on that thought.

Light, let her be wrong.

Because the Reborn Dragon was giving in to madness. 

And it didn't matter that the man inside him wasn't alone, in body, surrounded by his allies, it wouldn't be enough to save him.

She gasped, trying to get up from where she was.

It had happened too fast. 

Too fast for her to see, to fight. She knew the legends. She knew what to expect, yet when she had stepped into Tar Valon after Egwene had established herself as the Amyrlin Seat — thwarting Elaida’s orchestrated capture and uniting the White Tower once more — and accompanied the Dragon Reborn to what was supposed to be a peaceful political meeting, what she had found was bodies.

Recognizing the difference in power between them was easy.

Face it , on the other hand, was like walking barefoot on burning coals.

She thought he had prepared herself along the years enough to at least be able to hold on, to help, for a moment. She thought she had something inside her that would make it possible to at least try. That she would be able to, at least, stop one of them.

But it wasn't one who had come for them.

It were four.

And Semirhage — she knew the description; Rand had detailed the woman who had gotten rid of Tuon and nearly killed him during the last negotiation attempt made with the Seachan, before Mat had informed him that he had fled Ebou Dar with the true one, and had almost killed him.  Cost him a hand and that cost him another part of the boy who no longer existed, dying a little more every day — had flown toward Rand with everything she had while Moiraine, Egwene, and Nynaeve tried to hold back the other three. 

Moiraine remembered the names of each of the forsaken, but there had never been anything to show their faces, and she had wondered which of them was who. Rand had already taken Ishamael and Rhavin, and Sammael had died in the Aiel Waste; there were seven left. 

The two female channelers and the man who had allied themselves with the shadows and who were entwining themselves in the space of the White Tower, destroying it effortlessly, seemed more like an army, and Moiraine thought, as one of them cut through her weaving as if it were nothing, throwing her against a pillar, that it was a sadness, a shame, that she would die so close to the end and that she would not even know the name of the one who would kill her.

But she hadn't died.

Not because she was strong enough to defeat one of them, but because Semirhage had.

And as his hands shook, stained with blood, power exploded from within, sweeping away everything around him, the One Power circling him more and more, flying free until more and more was pouring out of him , attacking everything, the Pattern groaning and creaking loudly, his eyes lifted once to meet hers, and Moiraine saw the exact moment he broke, his eyes widening slightly before his knees hit the stone floor and someone — another, Moiraine gasped where she stood; lower, her eyes burning, her lips echoing with laughter — was wrapped around him from behind, something glinting in her hands, too fast for either of them to scream in horror before she closed the chains around him.

Rand gasped where he stood, loud and desperate, still trying to contain his own horror — a woman; he had killed a woman , the only restriction he had reserved himself the right to demand — and where she stood, Moiraine felt the despair escape, despair, from within her. She had been forgotten; they had all been forgotten, the Forsaken forgetting them, ignoring them, in favor of turning their eyes to Rand.

To the Dragon Reborn.

Caged.

Moiraine felt the scream catch in her throat. Egwene screamed for her, desperate, trying to get to her feet, trying to fight against the weaving that had broken her ribs, leaving her half-crumpled on the floor. Not only her, Moiraine gasped, feeling the pain crawl through her body; someone had broken her hand. She had barely felt it, barely seen the quick, dry touch of power, before her eyes had seen the remnant of bone, threatening to come out.

“So easy.” The woman whispered, her voice honeyed, like a caress, her fingers lightly stroking the chain that connected the bracelets to the necklace around Rand’s neck; Moiraine felt vomit rise in her throat, and she closed her mouth to force it back. “So easy to break even the Dragon, if one knows how to bide one’s time.”

She reached up and tugged lightly on the chain. Rand’s body responded instantly, as if it were no longer his own, as if she had pulled not just the metal but also the soul, the will, the very essence of who he was.

He got down on his knees, bowing even lower.

Moiraine choked back a sob.

“You can’t…” She tried to say, but the words died in his mouth.

Of course, she could. 

She could do anything now.

Those bracelets… that kind of domination wasn’t just physical, wasn’t just control of the channeler, but of the mind, of the will, of the being and it was a transgression . It was such a profound violation, Moiraine gasped, feeling the tears well up, the sobs choke in her throat as a little more power pushed her deeper into the ground, burying her in the stone, opening the ground like a grave. She would die here, she knew; in the very place where she had been robbed of a life. 

She would die here, but Rand wouldn’t, and he didn’t deserve that.

So much suffering, she choked.

So much suffering and even his will had been taken from him, his mind snatched, caged.

Moiraine strained her fingers one last time, trying to move, but a shadow moved above her, and in the blink of an eye, the cold, cruel hand of one of the others, the man — Demadred, she thought, not knowing if it was intuition or knowledge — pushed her down again, pushing her against the ground, pressing her face into the cold floor.

“Stay there, you poor thing.” He hissed, a smile that didn’t reach his black eyes like wells. “Now, you must only watch.”

And Moiraine watched.

Watched and cried while doing so.

Watched the spider pull Rand to his feet as if he were an unwilling puppet.

She watched his eyes — those eyes that had dreamed, those eyes that had once wanted to live, to dream, to love — sinking into an even deeper void. She watched as she turned to her with a smile and ordered the Dragon Reborn away, like a leashed dog, to kneel.

He did so, and against the silence, against the pressure of her ear pressed against the stone floor, Moiraine heard Nynaeve scream.

Beg.

Beside her, Egwene was gasping for air, her hand pressed against her broken side, and Moiraine knew she would never be able to stand on her own. Nynaeve was motionless — a trickle of blood was running down her forehead, mixing with the dirt on the floor.

“I was surprised she actually listened.” The woman whispered to him, tracing her finger along his jaw before lowering her face until it was almost touching his. “I expected her to fight. To reject the suggestion of leaving you to us.” She smiled at him, rubbing her face against his, leaving him free enough to react and Moiraine watched, craning her neck as the Forsaken holding him eased her hold, allowing him to do so as he pushed back, trying to get away from her. “But I think even she got tired of chasing after a man who doesn’t want her. Or maybe… maybe she’s dead in a ditch somewhere… you haven’t seen her in a while, have you, Lews?!”

Against the chain, against the necklace and bracelets, the metal dragging against his left wrist, Rand made a movement, small and quick and fierce, and the woman laughed, loud and amused.

“Oh… would you look at that…” She laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck as she turned to face the others. “Maybe there’s something hidden in that little heart…” She purred at him. “Don’t worry; you’re going to tell me what it is.” She paused, lowering her voice even further. “You’re going to tell me all your little secrets, before the Great Lord feasts on you.”

Moiraine whimpered where she stood, anger forcing her upward. Lan was close, she knew. She could feel it. She didn’t know if she regretted going in without him, or if she ached in anticipation for what he would find when he arrived.

“Moghedien.” The blonde grumbled, as if the joke was wearing thin. “Could you stop playing around and —”

She didn’t finish the sentence, and Moiraine gasped as a steady pulse of Power slammed into Demandred, forcing him to crawl off her, leaving her free to turn toward the shadow in the doorway.

Moiraine gasped softly at the sight of the green robes.

Alanna Mosvani had returned to the White Stone.

She would have cried if she hadn't felt what she was weaving between her hands.

“Rand al’Thor!” Her voice rang out shrilly, mingled with the echo of a flow of Spirit already woven, reaching out toward him, invisible but palpable to anyone who knew how to feel it. 

Too powerful to go unnoticed.

No!

Moiraine almost screamed, but her throat was too dry. Alanna stepped forward anyway, her eyes wide, her hands raised as if she could simply grab Rand and drag him back — but not with physical force, no. Worse. She was trying to force the connection, Moiraine gasped at the knowledge. Even without seeing the thread, she could feel the intention: to create a Warder's bond, without consent, in the midst of that chaos. 

Imprison him, when he was already on a chain and try to find out which one was stronger.

An affront so great that she couldn't blink.

There were others, Moiraine realized, others, colors spreading, trying to hold back the fight as Alanna pushed the power into Rand, while, kneeling, still trapped, that thin hand circling against his neck, a wide smile on his lips, Rand tried to crawl back, to escape the chain.

It was useless and they would lose, but Moiraine could see nothing beyond that thread of power.

From another violation on a man who couldn't even take living anymore .

“Stop!” He choked out the words, shouting, repeating them until he felt the blood tearing from his throat. “Stop it, Alanna!”

Rand staggered, his hand going up defensively, and Moiraine bit back a growl as Moghedien smiled a little wider behind him; playing with him. With the impotence. With the power, the satisfaction , that she felt by holding the Dragon Reborn and letting him try to fight, only to lose.

Before him, Alanna opened her mouth and Moiraine closed her eyes, screaming, waiting to hear the words. The terrible words she would say, without caring about the weight they carried.

She didn't speak.

Instead, Moiraine felt before she saw, the way her body flew forward, green dress a blur in the air before her body slammed against the opposite wall, blood gushing from her forehead and a loud scream cutting through the air before her hands snapped with a loud 'crack'.

Like a rag doll.

And it was relief , Moiraine gasped, which she felt as her eyes caught sight of the hem of a white dress.

“Try.” Lanfear growled, and where she stood, Alanna’s eyes widened, trying to blink against the pain, her body half limp. “You just try. ”

She stepped forward before the relief had even settled in her chest, and Moiraine gasped, gasped in shock as the Power engulfed the air, the room seeming to shrink, as if she were sucking the air into herself. Perhaps she was, Moiraine gasped as she felt her body rising where it was, floating lightly in the air with the pressure, with the speed with which she moved, flying in the air.

Raw power, Moraine discovered, felt very different from what she controlled.

It was oppressive , she trembled, her body reacting to the Power on its own.

Oppressive and crushing and her body hit the ground with a loud thud as Lanfear found her target, weaving power and rage, fury, with such force that it took the stones that covered the ground with it, tearing them away as if they were air; as Rand had done when he recovered Callandor, the thought crossed her mind.

“I’ll kill you.” Lanfear spat, dodging a black blow that tore through the air where her head had been an instant before. “I’ll kill you for this, Moghedien.”

Brutal .

She was brutal , bending in a choreography that was difficult to follow with the eyes, meeting the Forsaken who fought against her with precision and ferocity, weavings coiling in a chaos of power that threatened to suffocate her.

“Don’t get involved in this, Lanfear.” Demandred roared, responding to her words even though they weren’t directed at him by casting another torrent of shadow. “Get out of the way. Go back to the shadow where you have been hiding all this time and let us do what we were chosen to do.”

Lanfear laughed, the sound sharp as a blade.

“If you wanted me gone.” She growled, spat the words, and around her, something became rawer. More ferocious. “Then you shouldn’t have touched what is mine .”

She moved at once, and the air pulsed, Moiraine felt it, pulsed with the force of intertwining flows — currents of Shadow and Light clashing, exploding into pure fire, burning and resonating in the bones. The True Power felt different from the One Power, Moiraine, tried to swallow; devastating, but also dreamlike, as if it were an art, coiling around the One Power as Lanfear coiled both around herself. 

She doubled back as Demandred threw a torrent of darkness at her, a mass of black, her dress scraping against the ground, moving against the air as she circled overhead, her chest thrust forward to catch what Mogedhien was throwing at her, strands of shadow intertwining, trying to envelop her in a living prison. Her fingers wove in response so fast that the broken strands of power were instantly replaced by new weavings of liquid silver and cold fire, exploding and sending Demadred staggering sideways, but she still screamed, the sound lost in the battle, a strand of the chain piercing her skin, scraping the delicate fabric and leaving a burning mark on her skin.

In the bones, Moiraine would have said.

“After I finally kill you…” The blonde murmured, weaving strands of gold and black together, snaking between her fingers, strands that wrapped around the black-haired woman, trapping her, crushing her as she approached. “I’m going to find out what’s so good about that man, that boy, that makes you crawl after him like a dog even three thousand years later .” She tilted her head, eyes shining with triumph. “I’ll use those chains… I’ll use him… And your Rand…” She smiled. “Will take it.”

Her words stole what was left of her air, and Moiraine felt something inside her break.

Break with perspective.

With the violation that was spoken so easily.

Where she was, Lanfear stopped.

She stiffened, her body tensing forward, her eyes slowly beginning to glow with an icy fury so deep it seemed to burn everything around her.

Something changed in the air, she saw it.

“Graendal…” Demadred murmured, and the word, the name, held a silent warning.

She ignored it.

“I’ll play with him. Your precious Lews.” She licked her lips, her smile widening as the prison of threads tightened even more around Lanfear, light and shadow merging into a suffocating grip. “I’m going to make him beg. For me.” Graendal’s soft laughter cut through the air, venomous, unbearable. “I will make him forget your name, Mierin .” She whispered, her eyes blazing with wicked triumph. “And when he looks at me… when he touches me… it will be as if you never existed.”

For an instant, the world seemed to freeze.

Moiraine couldn't breathe, she realized, her chest constricted as if it too were caught in that crushing weave, suffocated not just by the power but by the naked violence of the words.

Lanfear did not move. 

She did not fight.

She just stood there, her chest still heaving, blood running down her pale skin, her eyes fixed on Graendal. But the light in them…

Moiraine had seen that glow before.

In Rand's eyes.

When he laughed.

When a god went mad.

“No.”

It was just a word.

Low.

Empty.

But charged with such absolute fury that the ground groaned beneath their feet, stones cracking into thin splinters, the pressure in the air bending like cold steel. Lanfear raised her head, her neck stretching like a queen's; like a serpent.

“You…” She began, and her voice was calm, so calm that Moiraine shivered more than she had with any scream. “Won’t touch a single thing again . ”

She exploded, power coiling around her, leaving her, until that black stain was circling her, until it was dominating everything, and the way she growled was animalistic, swallowed up by the pressure of her own power, the golden and black threads that Graendal had woven, that bound her, exploding into fragments of golden light, shattering in the air.

Graendal took a step back, surprised by the ease, the speed, but before she could undo the next weaving, Lanfear was on her, fingers moving in an impossible dance, weaving One Power and True Power at the same time — a tapestry of pure destruction.

“Do you want to play with him?” Lanfear hissed, as the silver threads of his own weaving shot out like claws, tearing at the air around Graendal, who could barely raise a shield. “To use those chains? To force him to his knees?!” She laughed and it was anger that flashed in the words. “He don’t bow to anyone but me .”

Lanfear tilted her head, her eyes cold as the void between the stars.

“I will show you what it means to kneel .”

Graendal cracked as her body flew into a wall, scraping the floor and slamming hard against the ceiling before falling back down. Moiraine waited for the attack, waited for Lanfear to launch himself at her, but she didn't.

She launched herself at the other two, twisting until she was slamming into the other pair as they attacked her in a dance, manipulating Power that cracked from so deep, so deep, a sharp beam hit her in the shoulder, making the blood run hot and threaten to run down her arm.

The white dress was slowly staining red, Moiraine noticed.

Half was hers.

But the other half was not, and Lanfear broke the double pressure, her fingers drawing in the air, too fast, too old, forgotten too, weavings so intricate that Moiraine could barely follow; she could barely imagine what they should cause.

Pain.

Whatever they were, they must have caused pain, for Moghedien gasped and screamed, loudly, as one of them hit her, her body flying across the room as if it weighed nothing; as if it were made of nothing. There was blood on her lips, Moiraine saw, trying to follow the battle; she spat it onto the floor, turning to face Lanfear again.

“Bitch.” She growled. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

Lanfear's lips parted in a smile.

“You never had one.”

Moiraine saw the movement begin, but didn’t follow it fast enough to understand what she had done before Mogedhien flew toward her, pulled by a force she couldn’t see. She gasped as her body slammed into something, something invisible in the air, and it was only when Demadred and Mesaana — Moiraine had heard Demandred shout the name — crashed into something similar that Moiraine realized there was a shield surrounding her.

“Have you forgotten who I am, little spider?!” She snarled, her eyes burning like black stars, the blue swallowed by darkness, her body bleeding but steady, the Power vibrating in almost physical waves around her. “Forgotten why you walk in the shadows, hiding , too coward to fight me face to face?!” Moiraine saw the way the smaller of the two women gasped; heard the sound, drawn out and wounded, echoing loudly. “I am Mierin Eronaile, bringer of the shadow, chosen before everything — before everyone —, beloved of the darkness, and you are nothing compared to me.”

Something changed in the Forsaken's eyes, a hand rising with a bit of doubt, as if contesting the fight for the first time. As if questioning, for the first time, if there was a chance of her actually winning against the four of them. The True Power still swirled around them, just as easily as it had before, but Moiraine saw the way, a little further apart, Demadred and Mesaana's eyes met, their eyes roving over the black shadow that grew and grew, expanding around Lanfear like a bottomless well, like there was no limit to how much power she could tap.

To pull from within the darkness.

Moghedien gasped as she pressed her open hand to her neck and pressed , her nails digging into flesh hard enough that Moiraine saw a trickle of blood begin to spurt. She gasped for air, scrambling as Lanfear let her body fall, but she didn't get far. 

“ Kneel. ” She ordered 

She did, against her own wheel, her body moving without her telling it to, and Moiraine blinked as she saw the power twist around her.

Slow.

Deliberately slow, a black blur crawled through the air, following her as she crawled, trying to get to her feet, the power preventing her from doing so, slowly enveloping her and It wasn't until they were fully wrapped around her that Moiraine realized what they were. 

“Let’s see how you like chains,” Lanfear growled at her, and it was dread that Moiraine saw burning in the eye of the woman dragging herself on the floor as her voice echoed in the room, loud and powerful and furious, the sound spreading thunderously. “When it’s you being caged like an animal .”

That was not natural, Moiraine gasped. 

Too deep to be.

Too dangerous.

Too much raw .

“Wait, Lanf —”

She didn't finish the name, the request, when she gasped for air and Moiraine tried to hold back her vomiting as Lanfear bent over her, her thin white fingers reaching into the black spot, disappearing into the darkness, poking and prodding as Moghedien screamed, loud and desperate, before she pulled.

It was a chain made of darkness.

The scream died on her lips.

Moiraine tried not to, but she still retched as Lanfear threw the chain aside and the Forsaken spine came with it, the shield around her splitting open, disappearing, blood staining the ground as she threw it at Graendal's feet.

An affront.

A challenge .

She roared in response, the tendrils of Power shooting forward, so thick and black, soaked in True Power, that Moiraine — trying to breathe where she stood, fighting to keep her own vomit at bay — was certain that not even Lanfear could escape.

But she didn't try.

Instead, she moved forward.

The threads collided with her, tearing her skin, blood dripping onto the floor. The next ones didn’t pass through. Not dissipated, but absorbed, swallowed up by something Moiraine didn’t understand, didn’t dare —  didn’t know if she wanted — to understand.

Graendal hesitated, the first mistake.

The last one.

Lanfear crossed the distance between them in a flash, a sharp slash of her hand, and her scream echoed through the room as a shoulder was torn apart, blood spurting in a hot line onto the stones, staining her well-made pink dress. She struck again, a clean, clinical move, forcing her to his knees.

She smiled at her, that toothy smile, fangs gleaming, like a hungry animal, and Moiriane saw the way it slowly — very slowly — Demandred and Mesaana took a step back; then another, slowly moving away from her field of vision.

From the battle.

“You want to see something nice?” Lanfear purred at her, her smile growing. In a move as graceful as it was deadly, she crouched in front of her, adjusting the bloodstained skirt of her dress and using one bloodstained finger, he lifted the other woman’s chin. Her smile widened, her eyes shining like black stars as she squeezed her finger, the nail digging into the soft flesh beneath her chin. “No?” Lanfear whispered, before lifting her hand. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “I’ll show you anyway.”

Something glinted above her neck, and Moiraine's eyes widened as she realized what it was; as she recognized. The Sakarnen shone brighter, shining brightly on her chest — a necklace, she realized; she had turned it into a necklace — as if it were the moon, attracted to whatever it was the power that she was using. 

Realization descended upon her coldly.

Terrifying.

Without the Sakarnen.

All this — all that power — without using the Sakarnen.

Power enveloped her at once, something deep and powerful, a mixture of everything she could touch, saidar being pulled from every corner of the room, rushing toward her, as if in a whirlwind. 

The touch of True Power was nauseating and seductive, provocative and sweet, like poison poured into sweet wine, and Moiraine held her breath as her skin lit up pure white.

Her smile grew a little wider.

“You always wanted to know what he taught me…” Her voice was low, coming from within. Graendal, her destroyed arm staining her dress with blood, had pushed herself to her feet, her eyes wide; she tried to back away, but her feet stumbled, and Moiraine saw terror begin to burn in her eyes. “There is no room for another daughter, Graendal and you will never have my place; but I will show what it means to be Daughter of the Night.”

The air parted before her.

Literally.

Moiraine gasped, and behind her someone let out a dry cry as a black fissure slowly opened before Lanfear, a rip in the fabric of reality itself, a jagged, smoking line that expanded, devouring not only the ground, but the stone, the power, the air… everything.

It wasn't a weaving mill.

It wasn't something that could be undone.

“Here’s what he taught me, you stupid bitch.” Lanfear growled, stepping closer, the rift before her growing narrower, thinner and thinner, shifting from body to body until it took on a form; a baby, Moiraine gasped. “This is how you erase someone from existence; this is how you rip someone from the Wheel.” Graendal screamed, once, loud and desperate, and tried to weave, tried to pull at that black spring, but Moiraine saw the moment she failed, surprise flooding her face… “You guarantee he’ll never be born again ."

The shadow closed slowly, shrinking until it was a drop, a dot, of darkness in the air.

And Moiraine saw, before her eyes, as that point faded and the Forsaken's body fell apart, disappearing as if it had never been there. As if it had never existed.

Where Graendal had been, nothing remained.

No blood.

No meat.

Nor the threads of Power she had woven.

Just emptiness.

The time , Moiraine realized.

She had torn her from the time.

She couldn't breathe.

She rubbed his hand against his chest — the hand that hadn't been broken — trying to draw in air.  She couldn't even close eyes either. They burned, dilated, stuck in that spot where, a moment ago, there had been a woman, and now... nothing. Not death, not failure, not failure. Nothing. Not even the blood or the scream remained — only the space where reality had surrendered.

“That... that’s not...”

Her mind tried to form a thought, tried to grasp at some rationality, some explanation—a thread of logic, something — but there was only that absence. A silence so violent it sounded like a stifled roar.

Her hands were shaking, she noticed.

She had begun to tremble again at the prospect of weaving.

Was it possible? The thought came and went, then came again, like a breath. She knew there was much they did not know, much that had been lost to time, much that was beyond what men and women could bear.

Powers that could not be touched.

But… rip someone out…?!

Was it possible?!

Someone touched her back and Moiraine jumped in fear, her eyes widening as they met Lan's even wider ones. He looked away from the distance for a moment, taking in what was left around him. 

The room had been destroyed, the floor ripped up, some of the pillars cracked — they had been hit several times, she remembered. They, and the Forsaken and her   — and there were bodies strewn around her, some of the Aes Sedai who had tried to fight before they realized exactly against whom, against what, they were fighting. Someone was healing her hand, she realized; Elayne, kneeling on what was left of the floor. In a far corner, two Aes Sedai were crouching around Egwene and Nynaeve.

It wasn't until her eyes swept across the room that Moiraine realized Rand was still trapped; still kneeling on the floor, his arms clasped in the handcuffs, his neck hanging down, pulled by the chain.

Her footsteps echoed loudly in the room as she moved, a steady step toward him even though she herself was bleeding, and Moiraine held her breath, listening to the world heave behind her, silent and restless, but too aware to try to intervene.

She approached him slowly, stopping in front of him, her black hair messy and dirty with dust, her white dress colored red.

Moiraine wasn't sure what she expected.

But as Lanfear, Daughter of the Night, slowly sat upon the ground before the Dragon Reborn, and slowly — so slowly — began to trace patterns in the air, slowly undoing what theoretically could not be destroyed, releasing — one by one — the weavings that held the chains in his arms, Moraine believed for the first time.

Believed that she loved him.

That she really loved him .

The sound of the handcuffs echoed loudly as they hit the ground a long time later.

Lanfear did not move away.

Instead, she lifted her fingers — thin, bloodstained fingers — and began the process again, one hand resting on the curve of his neck to keep him steady and upright as she undid the ties of the collar.

Rand didn't open his eyes when the necklace fell to the floor.

But he was shaking, Moiraine saw, his whole body shaking as if he were sobbing, even though there was no sound coming from his lips. Even though his eyes were still closed, his neck hanging down; defeated , she decided, he looked defeated.

He was so tired, she knew.

So tired. 

And so young .

“Rand.” Lanfear murmured, calling to him. Too sweet for her, Moiraine thought; but perhaps she would be sweet if it was to — with — him. “Look at me.” Rand didn’t look up at her. Didn’t move. “I’ve got you.” She whispered to him; loud enough for him to hear, even if something else, someone else, were screaming in his mind. “I’ve got you, love. You’re safe.”

Too intimate, Moraine decided, intimate enough that it felt like she was invading. 

Like they were all invading, the whispers beginning to spread through the room.

About the Forsaken who came to protect the Dragon Reborn against her owns. About the woman who ignored her own pain and the blood that slowly dripped onto the floor as she moved her arm and hand to undo the bonds of a caged man. About how powerful she was. How dangerous she was. About who she was and why she was there. What it meant for her to be there. 

Why she had come.

A secret that was no longer a secret.

Lanfear didn't care.

Instead, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead, one hand wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling him close.

Rand gasped, his body falling forward.

Lanfear caught him before he fell, supporting him, letting him fall over her shoulder.

Moiraine didn’t move, her chest tight, the knots of fear and relief so tight she could barely breathe. No one dared to say a thing. Not even Egwene, not even Lan, who stood just behind her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his gaze and body tense enough that Moiraine didn’t even need the bond to feel it.

The world was suspended, she concluded, breathing very slowly.

Waiting for something to fall.

A bomb.

The last bomb.

Moraine didn't expect it to come from where it did.

~

His hands were stained with blood.

There was a woman holding him.

Her hair smelled like home.

Someone was calling his name.

Calling him out.

There was a woman holding him.

He loved her very much.

Too much.

~

Rand lunged at her at once, the crystal sword erupting in his hand.

Part of him cried — grateful , Light, so grateful — as the Power wrapped around her, rising before she even had a chance to realize what was happening, defending her on its own, and she flew back one, two steps, raw power blocking the attack before it could reach her.

She was beautiful, it echoed in the corner of his mind, a voice that sounded like his own but he could barely hear, drowned out by something that screamed louder, propelling him forward, moving him before he could think.

She was beautiful, eyes that shone and a dress made of stars stained with blood.

He loved her very much.

Something inside him told him to kill her.

The One Power exploded from within, Saidin enveloping him, dragging through the air, slamming and slamming against her, hard and relentless, the air cracking, and Rand saw, even though his vision was dim, blurry, when the impact threw her backward, her feet skidding on the rubble of the Tower, her white dress — now stained red and soot —fluttering. Her eyes widened for a moment, her mouth opening as if she were going to speak, but he lunged forward again, his sword in hand, and she closed it against his attack.

There was something inside him, he felt, spreading more and more.

A cold fury.

Despair. 

Madness.

She dodged, her black hair cut by the blade, strands falling like wisps of shadow.

“Rand, stop !” Someone shouted to him, someone who wasn’t her, but the voice didn’t reach him.

Not far enough.

Not enough to break through the darkness in your mind.

To replace the shout, the order.

Kill her.

The sword trembled in his hand—or was it his hand that trembled, or the world that swayed around him? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter. The cold of the saidin burned in his veins, icy and sharp as thin blades, and at the same time hot, so hot, setting his skin, his nerves, his bones on fire. 

He felt everything. 

He felt nothing.

The thought rose higher and higher, sharp, implacable, a whispered command with the softness of a blade brushing the throat.

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

But it was her and he couldn’t understand . It was her. She was there. Her skin even more pale, those beautiful eyes, her hair like silk spilling over her shoulders. Perfect. Frightening. He loved her. 

Kill her.

He wanted her dead.

A muffled scream echoed in his mind. He couldn’t distinguish it — Lews? Or him? — but someone was screaming, loud and desperate, without stopping, unable to be heard, the sound smothered by rage.

Rand staggered backward, his knees nearly giving out, but his feet found the ground by pure instinct. The blade pointed at her chest. All it would take was a single motion. One well-executed move. He was good with the sword now. Very good with the sword. He was a king. All it would require was a twist of the wrist. A slash. And he would be free.

But free from what?

He wanted to die. Would he finally die? They would finally let him die if he do it? Was it that?! That was the price?! That would make him free? If he kills her, would they finally let him rest?! He was tired.

So, so tired.

Just wanted to rest. Close his eyes and don’t have to open them again. Did he have to take her with him?! That was it?! Was that what he had to do to be finally left alone? To finally be left to die?!

But… she was so beautiful… so alive . 

So full of life and power and beauty, she shouldn’t have to die with him. He wanted to die; he should die. Done enough to deserve that; at least that. They could give him that for everything he had done; everything he suffered for them. But she should live. She still had much more to do. Places to go.  She still needed to get that cabin in the woods. He wanted to go with her. 

Wanted to go with her.

Why couldn’t he just go with her?!

The world seemed to shatter around him, trying to find an answer and he gasped. In his mind and around his body. A cracked room. The sky spinning in a strange rotation — was it day or night?! All he could see was light. Like stars exploding, breaking apart, reforming. And her. The only constant. A certainty.

The certainty.

He loved her.

And she needed to die.

KILL HER.

He struck again, and this time it hit.

The blade bit into her shoulder, tearing flesh and silk, and the smell of burning skin filled the air and she made a low noise; not a scream, more of a moan, a sigh.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to apologize. He didn't want to hurt her. Light , he was sorry, so sorry, didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to, don’t want to hurt — but he had to kill her and the words wouldn't come, they had no form. They had no color.

But blood had.

She bled red. He had seen her bleed, at some point. Some moment lost in time. Saw her bled for him earlier. She bled red and blood needed to be spilled and he didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to, don’t want to hurt —

Rand didn't realize he was talking, that he was crying , until he choked for air.

“No... not you. I can't…” He choked, his own voice, tiny, drowned in a sea of ​​hate, a sea of ​​hate he didn't feel, that he didn't want to feel. “ Not you .”

Her eyes widened, straightening up more or less in front of him, blood dripping from where he had cut her on the shoulder.

Rand closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see. But even there, in the darkness, in the darkness where there was only him and the madness, the hunger, he saw her: Her face half-curved in pain, or was it contempt? Or compassion? Pity? Anger? Had he finally scared her enough to give up on him?! A monster. He was a monster.

She was a monster too.

He loved her.

He loved her.

You hate her. 

He loved her.

Loves her.

She doesn’t love you. 

Lied to you. Lied to you and it’s lying again. She will never be honest. Will never be yours. Will never be at your side. Lie to you. Lied to you. Betrayed you. Betrayed you. Betrayed you.  Liedtoyouliedtoyouliedtoyouliedtoyouliedtoyou. 

She betrayed you.

Rand gasped, something raw, something weak. Something desperate.

“ She saved me.”

Kill her. She will betray you again. You can’t have her. She is not yours. Notyournotyoutnotyoursnotyours. Belongs to the darkness. Belongs to the enemy. Is the enemy. Kill her. Kill her, Killherkillherkillher.

Love her.

Love her.

You love her.

Kill her. Kill her, kill her. Stop being so weak and do your job. Do what you need to do. You were born for this. To kill her. She betrayed you and you will kill her. Kill her before she do it again. Before she makes you love her again. Kill her and you’ll be free. Kill her and you will never cry for her again. Kill herkillherkillherkillher — 

KILL HER!

His arm trembled, rising on its own, pulled by invisible threads. 

He cried.

“Go away.” He begged, tensing his body, trying to tense his body, trying to force his feet onto the ground, to keep them from moving. He could feel it, Rand gasped, could feel the way slowly, one second at a time, his feet began to lift; to move, even as he pressed them down. “Go.” He begged, louder, firmer, more desperate and he didn’t know if he was talking to him or to her; if she know it too. Needed to do it better. Needed to do it better, he forced himself, his body curving around himself as she shout at her. “MIERIN, GO! Leave me! I’ll kill you!”” He choked. “Please.” His voice sounded cracked, he realized, a distant sound; cracked and bruised, choked; tearful. “Oh, Light,  I’ll kill you.”

He would, Rand knew.

He would kill her if she stayed.

He could feel the power coiling inside him, the anger, the rage, the thirst, drowning him, pushing him, overwhelming him, screaming in his mind, a mixture of you he didn't know, but he did know. 

Voices that were his and that weren't.

But who was he? Rand al’Thor? The Dragon Reborn? The Shepherd of Two Rivers? The Madman Who Killed Them All? Kinslayer? Who was he? Who was her? Was any of it real? Were they real?

Lies. All lies. Kill her.

Kill her.

“ No.” He growled at himself, trying to push himself back. “ No!" Rand pressed his temple with the only hand he had, the sword shining in the corner of his eyes, but it wasn’t enough — nothing would be enough to silence the voices, the pain, the chaos — and he let go of his sword. “I can’t.” He gasped. “ I don’t want to.”

Yes, you do. Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

Or she’ll kill you.

Kill her.

Just kill her already. 

You’ve done it before. You can do it again.

Inside him, something was crying.

Somebody. 

“No…” Someone cried and it wasn't him. Not anymore. Not just him. An exposed crack, oozing pain, desperate. Too desperate. “Not again…” The sob tore through him, coming from deep inside, from that bottomless pit he was afraid to look into. Not just a whisper, not an echo, but a scream, alive, steady, screaming at him for him. Screaming at him. Screaming for him. “Please…”

It’s better that way; you know it is.

End it now.

Cut it.

Rand squeezed his eyes shut, his face contorting in pain; he felt the hand that had abandoned the sword — he only had one now, he remembered, there was no need to differentiate — trembling, the fist clenched until blood ran between his fingers. The Power was twisting around him, he felt, hungry, wanting to be released again, wanting to destroy; rebelling against him.

Cut her.

End it.

“Stop!” The voice screamed inside him, screamed through his mouth, desperate and loud. Coming from within. “ Stop us !”

The voice sounded inside him, again and again, and Rand felt— not heard, not thought, felt — every fiber of his being tearing, breaking, crushed over and over again and then forged anew, like iron burning until it turns white, until it loses all form and is transformed; until it becomes something else.

And the pain, he choked.

It wasn't just his.

It was his... and someone else's.

His.

And Lews’s.

End it!

“I… don’t want to…” He whispered, or maybe it was Lews. The difference no longer mattered. Her eyes were wide, staring at him, her hands open around her sides. Saidin rebelled inside him, furious that she wasn’t running. That she wasn’t fighting. That she wasn’t afraid of him. Burning like a thousand suns, ready to explode, maddened, stained, and Rand felt, as if it were his own flesh being torn away, like the skin of that hand he no longer had, burning, the urge to use it, to release it, to destroy everything — all —  to silence the pain. “Not again… not her…please, not you.”

Rand saw the exact moment she understood.

Right after he did.

When she understood that it wasn’t just him screaming.

That it was them.

He tried to take a step back when her eyes filled with defiance. When she straightened her body and took a step forward. When her lips curved into that smile he loved.

That they loved.

“You will not kill me, Rand al’Thor.” She spoke, and it was not a request, but an order , her voice sounding firm and resolute and clear. Clear to the world, to the bodies Rand could see scattered around the room, trying to get closer while he held them back — he was holding them , he realized for the first time, Saidin keeping them apart —and for him. For him and for the numbness in his mind. An order. A direct order, and her voice spread like wildfire through his mind, through his body. Till his soul. “And you won't kill me either, Lews Therin.”

He trembled.

The sword flashed again, drawn by the power until it was sheathed in his hand.

Lanfear didn't take a single step back.

And Rand felt terror condense inside him.

Not terrified of her.

Terrified of him .

Whose he was.

Of what he could do.

That he would.

Of what he would be forced to do, because he loved her — he loved her very much —  and he was doomed to kill those he loved first. 

He tried to step back, but his feet kept moving forward, guided by invisible strings, pulled by hands that weren't his—or were they? —pushing him closer and closer to her, Saidin coiling around her body, burning and glowing, dark and stained, dark like the madness inside him.

He couldn't think.

He couldn't stop, he choked.

And then another voice answered, overlapping, the same but different.

But we can.

Rand gasped, falling to his knees, his body shaking violently, his hand still clutching his sword. And then, as his knees hit the floor, loud and desperate, hard, violent, as he was inches from the hem of a bloodstained white dress, he saw.

Saw Collam Daan burning.

Saw Ilyena, the one he supposedly loved — the one he had permission, was allowed, to love — dead, her golden hair spread out on the ground, cold, inert.

He saw the world fall again; the Bore opening, devouring everything.

Saw Shayol Ghul’s shadow. He saw Shadar Logoth and the well of souls. He saw what he had to do. And as Lews drew closer to him, as he finally, finally accepted that part of himself that he still tried to fight — if only a little less each day, a little less each time he picked up his sword, each time he fulfilled one more part of that prophecy — he discovered the answer to the question he’d been asking himself ever since he’d felt the first touch of madness.

And saw — felt — she smiling at him , in the curve of Elan's shoulders and his chest expanding in response to the sight.

I am you.

The words echoed in his mind, and Rand gasped, feeling the tears fall, hot, burning his skin.

You are me.

There was no more division.

There was no longer a thin line between two consciences, two spirits at war.

There were only them.

A man.

A destiny.

The same fury.

The same guilt.

The same soul.

Rand didn't see his hand go up.

You are me, and I am you, Rand al'Thor, and we both love the same smile.

He didn't see her eyes widen.

Didn't see her move.

But he felt the pressure, the pain, as he forced Callandor against his own chest and turn his eyes shut; as he closed his eyes to her and embraced that ouroboros that lived in his soul, loving her, dead or alive.

Chapter Text

The voice in his head was silent.

That was the first thing Rand noticed as he slowly began to wake up.

The second was that he was surrounded by faces he loved.

The sun streamed through the window, shining brightly into the Palace of the Sun, and he blinked a little to recognize the faces that were scattered around his bed.

It felt like years, Rand breathed, since he had last seen them all in one place.

Nynaeve had his right wrist clasped in her hand, half-perched on the edge of the bed, and, one hand resting on her shoulder, Lan watched him. At the foot of the bed, he heard Egwene make a noise, muttering something that made Mat laugh — it sounded, Rand realized, very much like “ the stupid idiot woke up” — , the sound spreading through the silent room.

His room, he realized.

His room in Cairhien.

It was the first time any of them had set foot there.

It had been four — almost five — months since he had settled into the Palace of the Sun, preparing for war, but his room was the only space where he could be him, where he could cry and try to breathe, fighting the panic, without having to explain himself.

No one had ever set foot there, not even Moiraine.

Now, as she herself stood beside a worried Elayne and a scowling Aviendha, the latter's eyes raking over him hard, shining even as she was half-hidden in the corner of the room, Rand realized how lonely had been the last year.

It was strange, he blinked slowly, trying to get his bearings, that the closest parts of his life, everything he had of his old life, seemed so far away now. He still loved them, and he knew he was still loved in the same way — well, maybe not in the same way; Egwene could hold a grudge and she still hadn’t forgiven him for his betrayal. For loving who he loved. Maybe she never would — but it almost felt…strange, he blinked.

They felt like strangers, in a way he couldn’t explain.

It was probably his fault.

He was the one who was becoming a different person every day; he could feel it, slowly deteriorating, becoming a stranger even to himself. 

A dead man walking, Rand blinked.

Dying, a little more, from the inside out, every time he opened his eyes and forced himself out of bed.

Sometimes, Rand blinked, over and over again, he really didn’t want to get out of bed.

Today, he took a deep breath moving to push away a pain that was starting at the tip of his body, could actually be the first time in months that he wanted to wake up. That he wanted to actually open his eyes and talk, and not just curl up in the sheets and let himself waste away.

He wondered, and cursed himself for the thought, if they would mind if that wasn’t the case. If they would even realize that he really, really didn’t want to be here, if today had been one of those days when he wanted to just… die. Just climb up that tower, to that highest window, and stop considering the pros and cons and the world and what it needed him for and just… do it.

Probably not, he tore his eyes away from Nynaeve’s face hovering above him, to the ceiling, forcing himself to actually wake up — he didn’t have time to sleep; there was work to do. He does, after all, do a pretty decent job of pretending. 

He needed to do a decent job.

No one could think of the Dragon Reborn as suicidal, after all.

“Rand?” Moiraine murmured, approaching slowly.

Her steps were slower now, he noticed. Almost as if she were afraid to come closer.

Of course, she was. Rand swallowed the bile and the urge to vomit, cry, and choke, and tried to steady his gaze; of course she was — he could have killed them all.

He still could, even though that voice was silent in his mind.

He was a ticking bomb, and he tried—failed—to hold back a wounded, deep gasp, sinking further into the bed as he felt all the eyes in the room turn to him; a ticking bomb, ready to explode at any moment.

“Rand?” Moiraine murmured again, moving closer to his bed, kneeling down on the mattress to look directly at him. “You’re in Cairhien,” she whispered, but he already knew that. “You’re safe.”

Safe , Rand choked out softly, almost laughing.

He didn’t know what it meant to be safe anymore. Not for years. Not since he first saw her. Since he first touched the One Power. Since —

His eyes widened, hand flying across the sheet, dragging the fabric, trying to touch his neck; he’d used the wrong hand, he realized; raised the arm that had no hand, almost reaching his neck before he noticed and lifted the other, searching for that collar.

For that pressure that held him, held his breath, his thoughts, his voice — everything — thin fingers that he didn't wantd to feel dragging across his neck. Devouring him, hands and faces smothering his own, swallowed by it all, feeding the world while he starved.

The room was shrinking, he realized.

He tried to realize.

Shrinking around him, the walls closing in, pressing from all sides until he was sinking into a mattress of ice, piercing him, cutting him from every side, cold sweat running down his neck, sliding down his spine like cold, invisible fingers.

No.

No, no, no—

“Rand?” Moiraine murmured again, but his name sounded choked and muffled.

The words were beginning to dissolve, he realized. Just sounds, mixing with the rising ringing in his ears, as if he stood atop a mountain and the wind was overpowering him, choking him with too much air, too much pressure.

He needed to breathe, Rand tried.

He needed to breathe.

His breath failed.

Then again.

And again.

His chest was rising and falling too fast, he choked.

He was suffocating, realized.

He was trapped again.

The collar was still there.

Inside him.

Buried in the flesh.

They never took it off.

Never managed to.

Never will.

Rand arched his back in bed, desperately trying to pull in air that wouldn’t come, hand clawing at his chest, trying to tear through the skin, maybe, to rip something invisible out.

“Rand!” Egwene was the first to run to him, kneeling beside the bed, reaching for his hand; Rand recoiled, and she withdrew as fast as a startled animal. “Rand, listen to me: you’re home, you're in your room. You’re safe!”

He curled in tighter, then suddenly jolted upright in bed, not even seeing, settling on its edge, nearly falling, stumbling over himself, hand groping at the sheets, pain stabbing in his chest like a needle, making him dizzy.

“He’s hyperventilating!” He heard Nynaeve say; he realized for the first time that she’d let go of his wrist — or maybe he had pulled away, he thought. Fled from the touch. Curled away. “You all need to back away! Someone help me hold—”

“Don’t touch him.” He heard someone growl, and it was like a gust of air, as if the pressure inside him recoiled; retreating, afraid of something greater.

That voice was familiar, he tried to breathe.

He knew that voice.

I’ve got you, love. You’re safe.

Moiraine stepped away, half-kneeling beside his bed, and Rand tried to blink when her face entered his vision. Tried to breathe as she knelt on the bed before him, her eyes searching and scanning his face quickly; still hazy, everything hazy, even though her face was beautiful, and Rand blinked again, trying to see it clearly.

Her hand rested gently on his knee, half-kneeling between his legs, and Rand took a deep breath.

“Feel this.” Lanfear murmured, pressing his knee, fingers curling over the bone. Rand breathed once, then again, feeling her touch, the pressure of her fingers. “Anchor yourself to it, okay?” She whispered, low and soft — too soft; he had forgotten she could sound like that — and Rand blinked, trying to breathe away the gray film clouding his vision.

She slid her other hand to his chest, slowly resting those fine and dangerous fingers over his heart, and Rand noticed, half-dazed, that his chest was rising so high her hand lifted with each heartbeat. Her cold, long fingers rose a little more, resting under his chin, lifting it gently, guiding him to look at her—softly, not forcefully—before returning to his chest.

It had been her hands that raised his face to hers, but it was her eyes that held him, and Rand breathed again, once, twice.

“Yes. That’s it, Rand.” She murmured, and his name in her voice sounded like an ancient prayer, like she was pulling him from a dark cave with a lost chant, calling him back not with demand, but with care. “You’re here. With me . Now breathe, cariad .”

The word was ancient.

A dead language.

He understood it as clearly as if it were the common tongue.

Beloved .

His breath cracked like breaking glass, but didn’t stop. A sob, a choke, but he breathed, and she came a little closer, standing up and pressing her body gently to his, nestling between his legs, both hands cupping his face slowly, lifting it to hers.

“You’re okay.”

He choked.

“It’s still here.” He whispered, hoarse and scared and desperate, even as his vision slowly cleared enough to truly see her. “Still here. I can’t—” He choked; the hyperventilating was starting again, he realized. “I can’t — I can’t breathe.”

“I’ll breathe with you, okay?” She murmured, inhaling slowly, deeply, carefully.

As if the very act of breathing was sacred, as if it were heavy and painful, as if it took effort—and she struggled too. Something with value only if done together. He felt her chest rise, nearly touching his, and tried to follow.

Once. Shaky.

Again. Deeper.

The third time, he closed his eyes, and something inside him gave way. 

Like ice cracking under heat.

Rand kept his eyes closed. It was easier that way. Not seeing the faces around him, what he knew he would see in them — the fear in Nynaeve’s eyes, the contained shock in Moiraine’s, Elayne’s unease, Aviendha’s restrained anger. Egwene’s judgment.

The disappointment in every one of them.

His weakness.

Light, he was so weak.

So weak , and pathetic, and useless , couldn’t do anything right and kept—

“Hey, Rand, look at me.” She called, commanded, pulling him out of his thoughts and Rand opened his eyes to her again. “Stop thinking. You don’t need to win today, you understood?!” She murmured, so softly he almost didn’t hear. “You just need to keep breathing. That’s all. Just breathe. Okay?”

 “'okay.”

His voice was a whisper, but Rand exhaled in relief at managing to speak. Lanfear nodded, giving him a small smile.

“That’s it.” She said, that small smile still on her lips. “Give me another one.”

Rand obeyed.

He breathed deep.

Once, twice, three times, the rhythm slowly stabilizing, his chest gradually lowering.

Her hands still held his face; a warm, firm touch, grounding him. Rand let his body lean forward, swallowing a sob, when she moved her hands from his face to around his neck, embracing him as he collapsed onto her chest.

“It’s still here.” He murmured after a while, when he had rehearsed the words in his mind enough to say them without breaking, without choking again. “I can still feel it. Wrapped around my neck.”

She pressed her lips to his hair before lifting his face again, pulling him from the shelter of her arms. Her eyes flared with fury for a second as she looked at him, before softening into that familiar warm blue once more—familiar and adored.

“Then I’ll break it again for you, okay?!”

He nodded, wordless, and she stepped back slightly; not enough that he couldn’t feel her — his arm still around her waist — but just enough for her to move her hands.

Rand breathed deep as her fingers grazed the skin of his neck.

Flesh, not metal.

Her fingers were cold against his skin; he was burning up, he realized.

His body was warm enough for both of them.

Rand bit his lips hard, eyes squeezed shut; there was nothing there, he knew.

No collar caging him, no shackles on his arms, but… he could still feel it.

He wanted to cry, he realized; wanted to cry and squeezed his eyes shut tighter to stop himself. He could hear the scattered breathing around the room; eyes burning on him, searching, frightened by what they saw.

Lanfear traced his neck again with her fingers, almost like she knew where his mind was going, grounding him again, and Rand swallowed. Breathed deep when she tapped her finger over the vein in his neck, a silent reminder to breathe, raising and lowering it, again and again, until he matched his breath to the motion.

His head hurt, he realized.

That sharp jab had returned to his chest again, to his ribs.

Rand blinked, trying to keep his eyes open.

They were heavy, he realized, the world spinning lightly around him, a force he couldn’t see but felt pressing down on his eyelids. Rand blinked, trying to resist the pull, the sleep.

“Go to sleep, love.” Lanfear said to him, voice low, firm, but gentle.

Rand shook his head—or tried.

“I can’t. Things. People. They… they’re waiting. I…” He breathed deep, trying to force the words. “I don’t have time… I need—”

“You need to sleep, Rand.” She murmured to him, pulling her hand gently from his face. Rand blinked again as she stepped away slightly, guiding him back to the bed carefully. “You’ve done enough for one day. Sleep.”

“It’s not enough.” His voice was hoarse, rough. “It’s never enough,” he choked, softly. “I’m fine, I just need—”

“Stubborn fucking mule.” She muttered, that hint of irritation surfacing before she smoothed it over into something softer. “You’re exhausted; you’re shaking, Rand.”

“I’m not.” He tried to smile, almost mocking, but his lips barely moved. “Just… tired.”

“Yes, sweetheart.” She whispered, a touch of sarcasm in her voice. “That’s what exhausted means. Close your eyes.”

“I can’t. I — I can't.” He tried again; settled for the truth when she gave him one of those no-nonsense looks. “If I sleep, I’ll…” He stopped, eyes drifting to the nothing behind her, blinking once, twice. His voice was low when he spoke. “…I’ll go back there. I’ll dream .”

She didn’t answer for a moment, and Rand looked up at her when he noticed. Ignoring the sharp intake of breath behind him. 

The impatience had vanished, replaced with that tender care that made him feel warm inside.

“Rand.” She whispered, calling him, firm but still soft, and he blinked at her, trying to stay awake. “You can sleep, cariad , you won’t dream.” She assured him, reaching out to stroke his chin, gentle and slow. “I’ll keep your dreams safe. I promise.”

Rand made a confused sound, trying to speak.

Trying to ask.

It was a mess of words.

She understood anyway, gently pushing him back down to the bed.

“Yeah, yeah,” She muttered, satisfied when he let himself fall back, pulling in air. “I’ll wake you in a few hours, sure thing.” She snorted, sarcastic and mocking, mocking the very idea. “Maybe by then you’ll have stopped being stupid."

Rand let out a choked laugh, the sound muffled by the bedsheets where his face was buried. She brushed the hair from his forehead once before stepping away, satisfied when he closed his eyes, arm falling open at his side.

He still heard her voice, a thin whisper as sleep took him again, words said to someone he couldn't say who it was and following him as he sank into the mattress, his body curling into the blankets.

“If you wake him before it’s time again, I don’t care why —  I don't give a fuck if someone died or the Last Battle started or whatever the bloody hell it might have been — I will kill you.”

~

Rand woke up surrounded by faces he loved.

This time, he breathed, once, two, before opening his eyes again; making sure that he could.

She was on the window.

The sun made her hair shine, black and dark, her white dress becoming slightly transparent against the reflected light, those blue eyes burning a hole in him, her cheeks and chiseled jaw glowing, devoid of any makeup—just like in his dreams—and Rand gasped softly, feeling his heart skip a beat.

He hadn't seen her — really seen her — in almost two years.

A year and nine months, in fact, of which he had counted the days, one by one.

She still took his breath away just the same — more — and when she smiled at him, Rand wondered if he had dead.

“You’re lucky I love you very much, Rand al’Thor,” she murmured to him, mirroring those same words from a long-shared dream, turning toward him definitively, one elbow resting against the window as she let her eyes roam over him. Her voice still sounded the same as he remembered, teasing and silky, dangerous and just a little bit sweet, and she smiled at him. “Or I’d kill you myself.”

“You’re okay?” he murmured, half desperate, his eyes roving over her quickly. Her dress was different, and there were no marks on her, no wounds, not even where he remembered his sword cutting her—the curve of that thin, chiseled shoulder—where she had been hurt. Where he had hurt her. He swallowed hard, his fingers trembling slightly, a noise of pain escaping his lips as he pushed himself up on the bed, trying to sit up, his eyes locked on her— Mierin — not daring to move then and risk losing sight of her. He repeated the question, his voice firmer now, but still filled with an urgency that made Lan frown. “Are you okay?!”

Lanfear laughed, a low, melodious sound that echoed in the silent room.

"I am fine, Rand.” She blinked at him, finally moving, stepping closer to him, one finger gently brushing the strands of hair from his forehead. She tilted her head, her eyes shining, that old mix of defiance and something softer that made his toes tingle. “You’re the one who stuck Callandor into your own chest.” She tapped her fingers against his chin. “Idiot move too; very idiot.”

Rand felt her touch like a shock — warm, alive, real — and for a moment, everything else disappeared. The Palace of the Sun, his friends, even the throbbing pain in his chest where Callandor had pierced him and he had caught a glimpse of a scar stretching across his chest—it all dissolved in that instant when Lanfear’s fingers brushed his skin.

He blinked at her, that spark of defiance, of pleasure, burning inside him.

“I don’t hear a ‘thank you’.”

“You'll hear a lot more than that when you look like you won’t pass out if I touch you.” She grumbled, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice, but Rand still saw that spark of amusement in her eyes. “Next time, you just let me handle, okay?!” She murmured, too low, too soft. His heart flared in response. “I’d rather much prefer you alive.”

His chest ached when he laughed, but her lips parted in a full smile at the sound, and Rand decided it was worth the pain. Her breath caught—quick and fleeting enough for no one but him to notice—as he brought her fingers to his lips, pressing a quick kiss to the skin, and Rand wondered how scandalous it would be if he pulled her against him and pressed his lips hard against hers.

If he would give himself the pleasure of kissing her, disregarding everything else.

Lanfear arched an eyebrow, as if she had read his thoughts—and perhaps she had, with those eyes that seemed to pierce his soul. Maybe it was some unspoken skill of hers. Her smile grew, spreading, almost a challenge, and she leaned forward a little, her fingers still clasped between his.

She purred at him, that low, sweet little noise, sinful , catching her lower lip between her teeth before looking at him that way , and Rand felt his face heat, his blood bubble and flow, but he didn't take his eyes off hers, he didn't let go of her hand.

It was Elayne who coughed, loudly and purposefully, breaking the moment, forcing him to tear his eyes away from her.

She didn't move an inch away.

Rand smiled a little more at the assurance—the nonchalance with which she stood; as if the world were beneath her, as if nothing could break her, shame her—before he sighed, the smile slowly fading as Lanfear slowly pulled her hand from his, stepping back until he returned to his place at the window.

“How long?”

How long since the last time he woke up.

“Three days.” Moiraine murmured, her voice echoing loudly from the corner where she stood. “If we had taken a second longer to intervene, you would be dead.”

Rand frowned, trying to remember.

She didn't take her eyes off the window to explain; she didn't need to look at him to know what he was wondering.

“We took Callandor off of you.”

Her voice sounded distant, tired.

Rand closed his eyes for a moment, trying to reconstruct the last fragments of memory before the darkness.

The pain.

The way she screamed his name.

Rand!

The metallic taste of his own blood in his mouth.

And then — nothing.

“You missed the heart.” Lanfear continued, her voice shaking slightly. Rand wondered if it was fear or fury. He got his answer when she turned to face him once more. “If you do that again, Rand, I’ll kill you myself.” She snarled at him, her eyes burning. “And you won’t like what I’m going to do to you after.”

Rand looked at her again, ignoring the way that around the room he felt the air grow slightly heavier, limbs — people — stiffening with her words.

Her back was to the sun now, the light outlining her silhouette like a shadowy halo.

Like a goddess, he thought. 

His goddess.

“Did you heal me?” He asked softly.

She laughed, a sound that made his stomach churn.

“Not exactly.”

“She stabilized you enough for Nynaeve and I to finish the job,” Moiraine murmured, her lips pressed together. “But it was… risky .” She sighed. “It took five of us to stop the bleeding. Callandor was still pulling it out of you.”

The echo of pain burned in his chest, a memory—a ghost— other - , the silver blade piercing his flesh. He swallowed hard, the fingers of his hand twitching, gripping the sheet.

“Risky? ” He asked, turning to Moiraine.

The Aes Sedai crossed her arms, her face impassive, but he knew her well enough to hear the tension in her shoulders.

“You were dying, Rand. Saidin was eating you up inside. We didn’t know enough about weaving for that; didn’t even know it was possible. We didn’t know what to do and if Lanfear hadn’t acted…” Moiraine hesitated, as if reluctant to admit the next fact. “You wouldn’t have survived.”

Rand looked at Lanfear again. She was quiet, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the windowsill, the sunlight highlighting the curve of her profile.

Too quiet. 

He knew what that meant.

“What did you do?” He asked, his voice harsher than he intended, but she didn’t care.

She turned her head slowly, her blue eyes shining like a puddle of water, like the sea, under the sun.

“What was necessary.”

The answer was typical of her—evasive, defiant.

He didn't accept.

Inside him, however, Rand felt his heartbeat slowly begin to slow, fear began to emerge, the longer she kept her eyes on him, but her lips closed. The longer she refused to answer. The more that expression on her face became tense, discreet enough for only him to notice, but there.

“Mierin.”

The ancient name echoed through the room like thunder. He saw Egwene and Nynaeve exchange glances, felt Mat's grip on the edge of the bed tighten, his limbs tensing slightly, his eyes searching for the spear that lay so close to him.

It was unnecessary, Rand almost shouted.

He had practically killed himself for her; he wouldn't let her die now . 

Lanfear let out a low, tired sigh, turning her eyes outward before looking back at him once.

“I asked .”

The silence that followed was so thick that Rand could hear his own heartbeat.

I asked.

The words echoed in his mind, but he didn’t understand them — didn’t want to understand. His chest tightened, not from the pain of the wound, but from something deeper. Something that made him afraid; that made him swallow hard before he spoke, his voice hoarse.

“What did you ask for?”

Lanfear didn’t answer right away. Her fingers were still tracing patterns on the windowsill, as if she were writing ancient patterns in the air. When she finally turned to him, looking away from what she saw outside, there was something in her eyes he’d never seen before — something that made him feel as if the ground had dropped out from under him.

“Power.”

The word fell like a blade.

Rand felt the air leave his lungs.

“Asked who ?”

She smiled, but there was no joy in the smile.

“You know who, Rand.”

He knew.

And the knowledge stabbed him harder than Callandor.

He couldn't breathe, Rand realized, pushing the sheets off him from the bed, groping — almost falling, he realized, forgetting again that he no longer had his left hand — to get up.

Around him, Egwene recoiled, eyes wide, Nynaeve moving closer to him as if the air had burned her, catching him as he nearly fell off the bed, tripping on the baggy pants he wore. Mat caught his spear instinctively as he did, knuckles white, eyes darting around the room as Aviendha drew on the power, blades of fire flaring through the air.

Rand didn't care about any of them.

His eyes were fixed on Lanfear.

“Why ?”

She laughed, a low, bitter sound.

“Because you were going to die, you idiot!”

“No.” He shook his head, teeth clenched. “No, no, there were —there were other ways. Nynaeve could—”

“Nynaeve couldn’t do shit !” Her voice cut like a knife, her eyes blazing. “You were bleeding the One Power, Rand. Saidin was tearing you apart inside out. It’s the Taint and it’s Callandor fail.” Lanfear murmured, running a hand over her face quickly. She was tired; Rand could tell. “The more you use the sword, the more it pushes you. That’s the price you pay for Callandor. The instability .” She paused, blinking between sentences. “Callandor… you missed the heart, but the sword is still yours. Part of you. When you wield it without being in control of yourself, she is. And the more out of control you are, the more power it gives you; the more of you it takes in return. No ordinary cure would work. I tried. ”

“What price did you pay?”

She didn't answer.

The emptiness in his chest grew.

“Lanfear.” Rand growled, forcing out her name, the words, one at a time. “ What.price.did.you.paid?!”

She didn't answer, her blue eyes slowly darkening.

Something big then, Rand realized.

Something too big .

“Get out.”

The word came out low, but sharp as a blade; she tensed a little, stiffed, and Rand cursed himself.

He didn't give her a chance to move.

“Everybody. Out.” He ordered, and there was something in his voice, he realized, something final and drawn out, dangerous, that made them stiffen, temporarily, before they moved. “Now.”

Moiraine was the first to move, tilting her head slightly before turning towards the door; the others followed reluctantly, eyes moving past Rand to the woman who still stared at him, unbowed, no trace of fear on her face.

Mat blinked at her as he walked away, a single movement, quick and almost imperceptible. Like he did with them, Rand remembered; like he always said goodbye to his friends.

Elayne stopped in the doorway, turning to him.

“Rand —”

“Now, Elayne.”

She swallowed, her eyes shining with suppressed emotion, an emotion Rand didn’t know — didn’t bother to identify — but she obeyed.

He sighed as he turned his eyes to her.

To the woman still leaning against the window, her arms crossed, her face impenetrable, without a single chill of emotion; icy. Impenetrable. But he saw— he always saw — the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened against her own arms, as if she were holding something inside.

He sat down slowly on the bed.

Rand didn’t speak for a moment, watching her silently. When he did, his voice was hoarse.

“Are you going to tell me?” She raised an eyebrow at him; Rand shifted on the bed. His voice sounded firmer than he felt when he spoke. “What you’ve never told me before.”

“Are you going to listen?"

The question had a critical tone, but beneath the criticality, beneath the ardor, Rand still heard doubt.

You never learn how to listen.

He nodded, a silent agreement.

“I promise.” He murmured, because she deserved to hear it. Because he wanted her to know he meant it. “I promise I’ll listen, Mierin.”

She didn't speak for a long time, her eyes roving over his face, again and again, as if weighing the risk, before she slowly pushed herself out of the window and walked to the chair across from his bed.

“When… when I opened the Bore…” She began. “Shai’tan spoke to me for months before I accepted the call. Every day, from the moment I opened my eyes when I woke up, to the second I closed them to sleep. I was trying to fix it, trying to close it after I find out what I had really done , but I didn't know how, and every day, he told me that I couldn't do. That it wasn't possible. That there was a reason I had done it in the first place. A reason for being me to find him. Every single day . A whisper in my mind.” She blinked, leaning her back a little further against the soft chair— remembering. “Then, some time later, he started talking to me in my dreams. A voice I didn’t recognize, but it felt like it was part of me. Familiar to me. Like I knew him from a long time.”

She let out a hurt little laugh, salty and Rand fought the urge to pull her close, wrap her in his arms and hold her.

“He saw me. Every little part I didn't have the courage to show to Lews. Every little part I didn't have the courage to acknowledge to me . He talked to me for months as I tried to fix what I had done — when the only two people who still talked to me, who still tried to understand, were Charn — my assistant — and Elan— and every day he made me a different proposition. Power. Knowledge. You. Everything I could possibly want.” She blinked, her eyes reaching up to the ceiling. “They say I surrendered, that I gave in, for you, because he promised me you back, but the truth is I gave in for Elan.”

Rand stirred, stiffening on the bed in surprise; she didn't notice, lost in the memories.

“I rejected it for months. I would have rejected it for years , but he saw me. ” She scoffed. “He saw what I wanted, what I desired, and what I feared. And when he realized that I wasn’t going to give in so easily, that I wasn’t going to bend to him, even that I did want all the power he promised, he started talking to Elan.” She laughed again, low and hurt. “He believed, you know?! The only one of us who really believed what he meant; the only one who saw the reason for it. He wanted to understand existence, you remember; and once he understood enough, all he wanted to do was to die . A single death. So he never has to be born again and suffer life.” She shrugged. “I gave in one  day after he did. Because he was all I had and I didn’t want to be alone.”

Rand shifted again, the sheet crumpled under his fingers, over his legs, as if it might anchor him somehow; but her voice — low, broken, naked, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as if she couldn’t bear to meet his — filled the space, leaving no room for anything else, and his body felt like it wanted to fly.

Fly to her.

“He held his word when I accepted the call. Shai’tan. He fulfilled everything he had promised me in all those months, whispering at the head of my bed as I tangled in the sheets and tried to force him away. More than that, even. He has always been generous with me." She paused. "He knew I didn’t want to be nae'blis — didn't believe it enough to be — so he gave me a better title: daughter." She blinked, once, twice. “Lanfear, Daughter of the Night. It’s lost to time, but in the early days, the correct way to refer to me was ‘Lanfear, Daughter of Darkness’ .” 

Rand forced himself to remain silent, even as the urge to speak overwhelmed him. Even as the urge to ask made him adjust himself on the bed, pushing himself back, his back hitting the wall slowly.

He had promised to listen, and he would.

“Daughter of Darkness...” She repeated, as if testing the sound of an ancient sentence. “It wasn’t just a title. It was… belonging. He made me his. He shaped me, he wrapped me up… he loved me, the way he knows how to love.” Rand felt a chill crawl down his spine, a cold nausea, as if the very idea might poison the air around him. But she continued, as if there was still much to say. "He taught me." She blinked. “And I accepted it. I accepted it all, because I crave power , and I crave to be untouchable, and I have a hunger in me that it can never be satiated and I always want more — want everything — but I had nothing and he knew that too . ”

Rand tried to swallow down the something that had stirred inside him at the words. Something that was affection, but was also fear, something that told him to reach out and tell her that she had something, someone, but also told him to run .

To run, and run fast, because he had no idea what he was doing, what he was getting into; of the depths of that hunger.

But she took a deep breath, keeping her eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if is she looked at him, she would cry, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded lower, hoarser — fragile — and no matter how much it frightened him, that hunger for power, that acceptance of darkness, of something that it should never be — couldn’t be — , he would not leave her alone.

Lews had.

He would not.

“He taught me and I learned. I always had been a good student; you know that.” She laughed weakly and tilted her head to the side. “And when Lews stood with purpose, when Lews tried, he told me: there is no fixing, beloved of darkness; there is only what is, and what will always be, but I will let you try. Because you are mine and you brought the darkness to the world and because of that, I owe you .” 

Rand bit the inside of his mouth and the taste of blood flooded it, spreading, hot and iron. 

To be owed by the Darkness... a prize, he winked, or a chain?

To learn from the Dark One himself.

To be loved by it.

To be called his daughter.

Could she see what she was saying?! The depth of what she was saying so easily. Or was she too far gone for him to pull her away and closer to him?! 

She believed? 

That he loved her? That he — it? —  could love?!  Had it gotten so caught up in her that she wouldn't be able to see if he showed her the truth? If he held her to his chest and told her it wasn't a hug it'd given her, but chains?!

“Have you ever wondered, Rand, why he lets me do what I want? Why he let me help you, without consequences, all this time?! My father is… jealous.” She paused. “And there are limits to how far I can go.” Lanfear blinked slowly and Rand tried not to shiver at the ease with which the word ‘father’ flowed between her lips. “But when I accepted the promises that he made me, the greatest of them was freedom . I cannot break my vows; I cannot abandon him, not without dying, without being undone.” She confessed. “But as long I don’t declare myself against him, I can do whatever I want. Even help you try to destroy him.”

She paused, blinking—once, twice— before finally looking him in the eye.

Rand tried not to fall, as he saw the light in her eyes.

With how much feeling there was in her eyes.

“I begged him.” She whispered softly. “I have not bowed to him once in three thousand years — not even when Lews had us trapped and he was the only one I could talk to, in the darkness of a dreamless sleep —, but I begged him to let me heal you. To let me access a well of power so deep that I had never even tapped before; a well of power he would not even let Elan touch.” She paused for a second. “I begged him, and he said yes.”  

Rand whispered, trying to think.

“At what price?”

She smiled at him, low and contrite.

“Crossed the line.” She whispered, confessed, softly, as if she barely believed her own words. “Chosen a side; tied my life to yours.” She whispered, and Rand’s eyes widened, his heart stopping. “He knew I loved you. He knew you would come back one day, that you would be reborn. He knew I would leave him the minute you looked at me the way you do now. Because I wanted to be loved. ”

She let out a hoarse laugh.

“He knew it would happen again, and again and again, until one day, someone wins. So he tied me to him and he tied you to me. Not by blood, not by power, but by fidelity.” She reached forward, touching the ring to her fingers carefully. “If you win, his last gift to me is your life; a chance for me to be happy, possible only because he loved me enough to let me heal you now. And if you lose…the last price is mine; because he loved me enough to want me by his side even though I betrayed him by asking him for you.”

Rand did not respond.

Couldn’t answer.

Didn’t know how to answer.

It was a contradiction, he thought. 

A contradiction and it didn’t make sense.

It didn’t make sense that he would give her so much freedom; that he would let her do so much. That he would let her heal him; the enemy. Was it still a chain, when there was no one pulling it along, holding her in a place? 

Was it freedom that she had or was it something else?

What was it about her — to him; what was it about her to him — that made him accept her helping the enemy, doing whatever she wanted, as long as she came back to him in the end? That made him content that she was his, if not in deed, then at least in name? To make worth it risk him — the Dragon Reborn — remaining standing, risking the possibility that he might actually win the Last Battle, as long as it would mean that he could have her with him forever?

She hadn't lied, Rand blinked, realizing.

He was jealous of her.

Could she... Could she hold a part of it, as much as he held her? Could she—

Well, Rand almost laughed, if anyone could do it, it would certainly be her.

If anyone could make the Dark One love, if anyone could seduce him into a twisted version of love and paternal affection, enough for him to do what he would never do for someone else, it would certainly be Lanfear. 

What did it make of him, Rand wondered quickly, being the one loved by her?! 

To be held dear by such a woman? Such a force of nature, that even Darkness itself couldn’t resist? What could he possibly have, possibly be, to make her love him enough to do so such a sacrifice for him?! Her words echoed in his mind, like a bell, resounding again and again, dragging, spreading through his mind, until it made him dizzy.

Tied my life to yours.

The meaning of this, Rand gasped.

Light.

It was bigger than he could process.

Bigger than he wanted to process.

Had tied herself to him.

And, by extension, to the Dragon.

To the Pattern .

To the Creator's designs.

And yet… yet, she did it.

For him.

Not enough, he decided; had decided in the second he asked himself the question, if he was being honest.

Not eve close to be far away enough that he couldn't pull her to him. That he wouldn't try. That he couldn’t meet her halfway. To truly love her, to love her and not demand anything, not make her owe him anything, and not owe her anything but himself. 

Not far enough in the dark, that he couldn’t try and he would not let her go, no matter what could that make of him; what could be said of him. 

For a moment Rand stood frozen, his fingers digging into the sheets, his chest throbbing with the pain of his wound, but none of that mattered. Nothing but the look in her eyes, the stark truth he saw there.

She had no regrets, no matter how dangerous, expensive that has been. 

She had no regrets.

But she was scared.

And that that meant everything.

And it was worse than everything she had said.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” His voice came out hoarse, almost a growl, almost a cry, finally realizing the depths of what she had said. “Oh, Light, you—”

She laughed, low and humorless.

“Did you not fucking listen — you were going to die , Rand.” She murmured, her fingers tightening on the arm of the chair. “You were going to die — you chose to die —so as not to kill me yourself.” She blinked at him, nearly choking on her words; if she ever choked on words. “To thrust Callandor—your own sword — in the chest and drown in your own blood, for me. Do you think I could, in any universe, let you die after that? To watch you die?”

“ Yes! ” He nearly screamed, pushing himself forward and off the bed, muscles protesting, the pain in his chest throbbing like a second pulse. “Yes, you should have let me die if the price was that ! You—” He gasped. “It’s too much for me! I'm not worth all that, Mierin.”

She didn't back down.

Didn't move.

She just stared at him, her blue eyes burning with intensity.

“No,” she whispered. “You owe me that cabin.” Her eyes brightened a little. “I want that left side of the bed, Rand al’Thor, and you will give it to me.”

He swallowed hard, his fists clenched.

“Don’t you understand?” he whispered, his voice breaking. “If I fail now, if I lose…”

“Then I lose too.” She finished calmly. “I know.”

“ Mierin.”

The name came out as a moan, a plea, a prayer.

She smiled at him.

“But you won't lose.”

“You don’t know that.” Rand choked. “I’ve already—” He sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair—it was long now, almost to his shoulders—his eyes resting on her wearily; his voice sounded too choked for a king’s voice. “I’m already losing.”

"You won't lose.” She repeated, slowly uncrossing her legs and rising from the chair. Rand sighed as her hands came to rest on him, one on each cheek, pulling him close to her; he wrapped his left arm around her, and for the first time since he had lost it, he felt the astonishing absence of his hand. Of being able to place it on her back and feel the soft skin exposed by the open back of her dress. “You won’t lose, Rand. I know you. Trust you. You won’t lose.” She murmured again, and Rand was transported back to that night in that cabin, when she had held his face and told him he was not a monster. “You won’t lose, because you’re capable of it, and because  I will make sure you don’t.”

Rand took a deep breath, her scent invading his senses— starry nights and whispered secrets between sheets in an inn too close now. Her hands were warm on his face, her thumbs tracing gentle circles over his cheekbones, and he sighed as she moved them lower, resting them on his chest before she stick against him, pressing herself against his still bare chest.

“You stayed?” He blinked, slowly. 

Three days.

“Yes.”  She murmured, not moving an inch. “You asked me to.”

“Where have you been?” He whispered, his lips brushing against her head, against her hair, as he pressed her against his chest in a tight hug. “Almost two years, Lanfear…” He blinked back the urge to cry. “Where have you been, my sould?”

He felt her teeth against his chest.

The smile.

“Well, Rand al’Thor,” she purred, jerking her head back to look at him. “Where else would I be?!” Her smile grew, teeth and fangs and danger, drawing him in. Rand couldn’t help but make a noise — weak and thirsty and hungry — that escaped his lips as she pushed herself forward slightly, brushing her lips against his. A light, quick touch, provocative . Almost an accident. Almost a challenge. Almost a kiss. Her eyes shone with a mixture of amusement and desire, knowing exactly what she was doing to him; what he wanted to do with her from the second he opened his eyes. “ Learning , of course.”

~

Rand tucked his arms into his red cloak, forcing himself to look like something other than how he felt as he walked toward the war hall of the Palace of the Sun. The wound still throbbed, even though it had been healed and scarred, and his head had been aching in the side since the moment he had opened his eyes, but as was always the case with him, there was no time.

He needed, Rand took a deep breath, to do something.

Something big that weighed more than the laurel wreath on his head.

Illian was, at least, stable; the Council of Nine was infinitely more pleasant than the High Lords of Tear, and as long as their king was unavailable to rule, they would — which was just as well, Rand chuckled as he made his way to the wide doors of the hall, because he probably wouldn’t rule anything after he had completed his obligation.

If he completes his obligation.

No, he sighed, he couldn't use 'if' anymore.

He had to win, to win the Last Battle, not just for the world anymore, but because the alternative would be to hand her over to the Dark One once and for all, and if he had already refused to do so before, there was no way, on earth or heaven, that he would let that happen after she had looked at him like that.

As if he meant everything.

No, Rand decided.

He couldn't lose it.

Even though the confrontation with the Seanchan had ended in a stalemate, and had eventually culminated in his encounter with Semirhage and the irretrievable loss of his left hand, it had also enabled more than that. The imperial family had been massacred at Seandar, and though an agreement had not been reached between the Dragon and Empress Fortuona— Mat’s wife , for the love of Light —, she had agreed to at least no fight against him; it was a start for something bigger, something that Rand needed to do, and she might not trust him, just as he didn't trust her, but he didn't need her to do it, he needed her to fight . 

Mat would return to Tarasin very soon, Rand knew, having been present in Tar Valon to watch what he had become only by an unexpected twist of fate.

Almost two and a half years, Rand sighed, since he had begun the long march.

No longer a boy from Two Rivers, but the Dragon Reborn, whose banner had blazed atop Tear, whose hand had conquered Cairhien — where he now marched its halls as a king, when he had once walked its streets as a stranger. Whose presence had bled the city beneath the stakes and banners of the Shaido, leading the Aiel not as Rand al’Thor, not as the Dragon, but as Car’a’carn, chief of chiefs—and Ilium and beyond.

He still owed that bill, Rand reminded himself.

He still owed Aviendha and the Aiel.

Maybe he would pay for everything in the end.

Perhaps what still needed to be done was enough to pay off the debt.

He took a deep breath, turning into the hallway, his red cloak dragging silently across the floor. He had fulfilled many of the visions, the promises, that had been made to him. He held a sword that was not a sword, a golden crown of laurel leaves upon his head. He had held a beggar’s staff when he found himself in Ebou Dar; he had poured water on the sand, and his bloody hand, the absence of it, still reminded him of the red-hot iron, of Balefire’s heat burning him, of Semirhage’s eyes upon him.

Semirhage , Rand remembered and forced the memory away with force.

He couldn't, blinked.

Not while madness still haunted his mind.

There was still there, even tough it was hiding from his eyes. Whatever she had made to him, to save him, had pushed it back to the corner of his mind, like a sleeping beast, but it was still there. 

Thinking about that — about what he had done — would poke it, he knew. 

No. 

He wouldn’t think about that until it was safe to do it.

Until he is sure that he would not lose the rope again.

That was why he was there, Rand blinked, straightening his shoulders, fixing his gaze on the large door ahead. The guards opened the doors to the war hall in silence, a silent nod of their heads as he gave a respectful, silent acknowledgement of who he was.

Nynaeve looked up first when he entered, setting aside the vial of herbs she had been twirling between her fingers, her eyes roving over him, searching for a wound, a sign of pain, that he could not let it show.

The Dragon Reborn needs to stand his ground, Rand blinked, even though he was tired and in pain.

He was pretty sure they all knew it, that he chose to hide from them what he wasn’t obligated to show the world, and when Elayne’s eyes burned over him — slightly too eager and curious — Rand pretended not to recognize it. He’d been doing that for a while now. Pretending not to notice the queen’s sharp gaze on him, pretending not to feel as it slowly grew a little warmer, a little more curious.

It was his fault, Rand knew, and the guilt still coiled around his stomach.

Once.

He had tried, just once, to stifle that hole in his chest.

Fill the space that was hers with someone else, and though a part of him had calmed when the green eyes of Andor's rightful Queen had rested upon him — standing as they gazed out the window of the highest tower at the kingdom that was hers, but was his, and which he had given into her hands to care for — the other part had hurt as she pushed herself up onto her tiptoes, and finally — after months of watching him from a distance, whispering his name too softly to not be what it was, looking to him as if she wanted to touch him, hold him — found enough space from him to place her lips over his.

It was his fault.

It was his fault, for that shared dream was so long ago, and though he had hugged her to his chest, he had discovered when she disappear and he returned to those who watched in silence that there was a reason none of the others had come out of the dream when he had dragged Lanfear there. That there was a reason the words he had whispered to her and her to him, that secret and that justification, had been for his ears alone.

You can't beat Lanfear, Daughter of the Night, in Tel'aran'rhiod, and she had determined that they should stay, but they would not listen to nothing but what she chose .

A hug, was all Elayne saw him give her.

And a hug, although it said a lot, didn't say enough.

She didn't know.

She did not know what Lanfear meant to him, and she did not know what he had given, sacrificed, for her. She did not know why, despite the many offerings, the Dragon Reborn remained alone. She did not know why Aviendha had not yet given him back the respect she had once given him in full — although it was no longer an insurmountable wall that separated them —, and she didn' know because he had ordered the only ones who knew, to not share the knowledge with anyone else.

Let them bury the secret beneath the stones of the Stone of Tear.

Even now, Rand sighed, even when he had nearly killed Lanfear, driven by a need to destroy the thing he loved most, even when she had stood at the window of his room, even when she had looked at him lovingly, and he had looked back, he knew that Elayne didn’t understand.

She didn't understand why the Dragon Reborn loved a Forsaken; why he couldn't love her .

She would never understand, Rand blinked tightening his fingers around the red cloak, because there was no time to explain — and if there had been, he didn't think he knew how to anyway.

Love had no place there.

In that war hall, where Egwene watched him silently where he stood, his hands resting on the sides of the chair, his eyes not leaving his for a second.

Amyrlin , he remembered.

An ally, a friend, but still the Amyrlin Seat.

Her eyes narrowed a little more as the woman walking nonchalantly behind him came into light. Moiraine stiffened a little, her eyes meeting Lan's briefly, but that was all she did, slowly settling back into a chair as Aviendha let her disgust show a little more on her face.

Rand chose to ignore them, choosing only to see the way Mat smiled at her, sharp and quick, twirling his hat between his fingers.

“Hello, Lanfear,” He murmured to her, forcing his voice into a mimic of the tone she used with him every time they meet. “Daughter of the Night.”

She smiled at him, a thin but satisfied smile, genuine, and Rand tried not to look too attached to it as he watched her calmly take a couple of light, confident steps —her body wrapped in a white ensemble that reminded him of that vision in Rhuidean, a slipper on her feet, as if she were tremendously harmless — into the room and closer to the man.

“Hello, Matrim Cauthon.” She blinked at him, her voice laced with softness and a hint of danger, her eyes shining, that beautiful face further outlined by the loose bun of her hair, a few strands hanging around her face. “How’s that wife of yours?” She smiled at him, squirming until she was on the other side of him at the head of the table, then pushed him aside, forcing him to change chairs, and sit down. Rand chose to not ask how she knew about that; she knew a lot of things that she shouldn’t. “Have you managed to make her love you yet?”

The hall was silent for a moment. Not the uncomfortable silence of someone fearing the enemy, or someone waiting for a bomb, but the silence of anticipation, waiting to see what would happen, what Mat would do, if he would be offended by the words, and then Mat laughed, tossing his hat in the air and catching it deftly.

“Well… Fortuona is still deciding whether to kill me or kiss me, if I’m being trully honest.” He replied, tossing his hat into the air once more and then placing it on his head in a quick, practiced motion, turning to wink at her. “But I have my bets.”

Lanfear laughed, a low, melodious sound that made Rand feel a pang of jealousy, quickly subdued by that comfortable feeling that arose with every small interaction he witnessed between the two of them. Mat was his friend, one of his oldest, and Lanfear... well, Lanfear was herself. But she was also his, and it warmed his heart, that at least one of those he loved could understand.

“Did you knew , that there is a hidden island right in the center of the Sea of ​​Storms, dangerously close to the Land of the Madmen, where legends say the first empress of Seanchan, made a pact with the sea itself, claiming the waters of the world?!” She blinked at him, straightening her body slightly, up, forward and closer to him, whispering as if it were a secret. “A place lost in time. A place no living Seanchan has ever set foot in…but which every Seachan empress dreams of finding and claiming…” She turned her shoulder to him, giving him a full smile. “Wouldn’t that be the perfect gift, Matrim?!”

Mat pushed himself forward a little in his chair, glancing at her sideways.

“And tell me… Would it be possible…” He purred to her. “For a man to find this lost place?”

“A man?” She made a little grimace. “Probably not. … You , on the other hand… A man touched by the Pattern, with so many skills… so much luck… So many war memories…” Her smile grew, teasing and playful. “Memories that, in part, originally, perhaps even come from that little piece of land…” She reached out a hand, poking the tip of his nose with her index finger. “A conquest like that for the Empress Seachan would certainly make her… touched… Don't you think so?”

Mat whistled, looked at her for a long moment, then laughed, tossing his hat in the air and catching it again.

“Oh, you are a danger.”

Lanfear didn’t answer, letting her back hit the chair with a soft squeak, but the smile on her lips spoke volumes, her teeth flashing as she wiggled her eyebrow teasingly in agreement with Mat before turning her eyes back to him; Rand found himself smiling along with her, something thin and subtle, but it was real.

He still had the smile on his face as he stood at the head of the table, his hands resting on the wooden top the chair, his red cloak spilling onto the marble floor; It wasn't until he looked up that he realized she had sat down to his left.

On the side where he no longer had a hand to defend himself.

For a moment the room seemed too quiet, as if everyone there was somehow aware of this gesture, this exposed vulnerability, and what it meant to him. The danger it would mean if she were not to be trusted. If she decided, at some point, that she would rather kill him than help him.

Rand didn't move. He didn't cross his arms, didn't lean forward to protect his open flank.

He wanted, he decided, for it to be undeniable what it was.

What they were.

That she sat on his left side not to spy — wait — but to protect.

“There is a way…” He began slowly, considering his words carefully. “To purify Saidin." He forced himself to keep talking, ignoring the way around the table a few eyes widened, slowly turning from one to the other. “Well, I have a…  theory."

Egwene raised an eyebrow at him.

“A theory?”

“Taint was caused by the Dark One touching saidin , but not saidar, being the reason why only men go mad when in contact with the One Power, right?!  I was thinking, for some time now, that since women are free and untainted, saidar would, theoretically, be able to neutralize — filter —the corruption without being corrupted too.” Rand paused, considering the words. “If we channel both halves simultaneously, we can form a link between the corrupted power and a… point. When I asked the Aelfinn what to do, I was told ‘sound principles in higher philosophy and natural philosophy’.”

He grumbled, leaving the back of the chair he gripped to step to the side, thinking, his hand rubbing his chin for a second, his brow furrowed.

“I only understood it about twenty minutes ago, when I was coming down here and thinking about it, but it would be like equalizing opposite charges or purifying a toxic substance through a filter that does not react with the toxin.” Rand muttered, oblivious to the way everyone around the table frowned, not understanding a word. Sitting where she was, Lanfear's lips parted in a slow smile, tilting her head to look at him, the smile growing wider and wider—thin and soft, tender —the more he talked. “The thing is, I need something to connect the two things, and I don’t know exactly what that —” He stopped, frowning at the way she was looking at him, his voice losing its frustration and taking on a softer, more confused tone. “What?”

She didn't answer for a second, her smile deepening, her eyes shining with a mixture of pride and amusement. She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand, never taking her eyes off him.

“Of all the things you could take from Lews when you finally accepted him completely…” She murmured, her voice low and velvety, filled with something dangerously close to admiration; she tilted her head, studying him with an intensity that made the air between them vibrate, but the smile didn’t leave her lips even as she spoke, her voice a little softer. “And you’ve picked up that way of frowning when you’re mulling over an idea and can’t seem to find a solution.”

Rand blinked, unsure of how to respond.

Curious how easily she had figured out what had happened.

But, he remembered, he did have shouted to her as both of them; had spoken as him, his words, before he made them theirs.

She laughed, a low, rich sound that made a dangerous heat spread through his chest.

“Not just that. The tone of your voice, the way you think… That hand on your chin… How confused you are now with a science that comes from centuries ago and that even Lews sucked at it…” Her fingers drummed lightly on the table. Her eyes shone a little brighter. “You’re devilishly, devastatingly adorable, Rand al’Thor.”

Rand didn't answer, his mind going limp for a second, but he felt perfectly fine the way his cheek become warm.

She didn’t seem to expect an answer either. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, her fingers tracing absentminded patterns on the armrest.

“As for your theory…” She arched an eyebrow. “It’s not just a theory. It’s correct.”

Rand's breath hitched.

He narrowed his eyes at her, silently watching the way she tilted her head to the side so she could look him directly in the eye, against the obvious height difference between them.

“Have you ever seen this done?”

“Not exactly.” His lips curled. “But I have studied the Taint. And I have, once, studied the nature of the One Power. And you are right—saidin and saidar are two halves of the same whole. One cannot exist without the other. The Taint is a corruption, yes, but it is not part of saidin’s true nature. It is a stain. And stains can be washed away.”

Egwene shifted, her fingers tightening on the edge of the table.

“And how, exactly, would one clean saidin ?”  She asked, his voice sharp with skepticism, but that old curiosity, the hunger by knowledge, it dawned enough for Rand to recognize it. “I mean it’s — it’s a lot.”

“You need a conduit.” Lanfear muttered, shrugging. “Something — or someone — that can withstand the filtering back of the Taint without being destroyed in the process.”

Rand's stomach turned; Moiraine spoke before he could.

“That sounds… dangerous.”

“Incredibly.” She agreed, her tone almost cheerful. “But not impossible.”

“And…” The Aes Sedai blinked, rubbing a hand over her face in thought, before speaking. “And you know how to do that?”

Lanfear smiled, slowly and confidently, looking directly at him, and Rand felt his eyes widen slightly in understanding. He couldn't help but laugh, the sound too loud for what the others were used to, and they turned to him in surprise.

Rand saw nothing beyond her.

“Learning, huh?!” 

“I told you he likes to teach me.” She shrugged at him, her smile growing. “You need someone to hold a circle, channel saidar and hold the stain away from you long enough for you to hold Saidin and resize the power." She pushed her chair back slightly, standing up. “Someone who is strong enough to hold it for the time you need it. Someone really strong.” 

Nynaeve choked out a disbelieving laugh where she stood, interpreting the words, her eyes widening in disbelief as Lanfear slowly approached him, to the end of the table where he had returned, fitting perfectly into the open space on his side.

“Are you really saying that you — you —” She emphasized the word. “are going to heal Saidin?”

“No, I'm going to teach you to heal Saidin.” Lanfear  corrected. “My father wouldn’t be too happy if I did it myself, and considering recent events,” she looked at him, lifting her head slightly, her face in that saucy expression, and Rand understood perfectly what she meant: you thrusting Callandor into your own chest because of me and me begging him for your life and consequently declaring myself on your side and betraying our three thousand years deal — “it’s better not to irritate him too much.”

Elayne frowned where she stood.

“ Your father?”

Lanfear snorted.

“Use your brain a little, honey.”

Behind her, Rand squeezed her shoulder lightly, right in the crook of her neck, ignoring the way a few pairs of wide eyes turned to her—to him, in question to her choice of words.

“Lanfear?” 

She turned to him again when he called out, her eyes shining in that unsettling way.

“Yes my love?”

The use of the term made Elayne clench her fists, but Rand ignored it, trying not to smile at her.

“My darling, dearest soul,” He murmured to her, his lips inevitably curling into a thin smile, delighted at how easily they fell back into that old tease. “Be nice, would you?!”

She rolled her eyes at him, her eyes burning with a less than pleasant promise, but she didn't pull away when his left arm rested comfortably around her slim waist, the red of his coat contrasting directly with the bright white of her ensemble.

The eyes burned on him, on them — about how his arm, where his hand should have been, rested on her waist, as if it were the most natural place in the world to be — but Rand didn't care, choosing to stare into those blue eyes a little longer, until she sighed in dissatisfied agreement.

“Are you serious?” Egwene asked, cutting through the sudden silence, her eyes flashing with a mixture of disbelief and suspicion. “Purify Saidin… Is that really possible?”

Lanfear turned slowly, still leaning against him, her lips curved in a smile that was half teasing, half challenging.

“ Everything  is possible, Amyrlin.” She murmured, her voice like silk on a blade. “As long as you know enough.” She smiled. “And fortunately for you all… I know quite a lot.” She reached out, a weaving slowly emerging— slowly, slowly enough for Rand to know it was on purpose — a network of threads of Saidin and saidar , intertwined. “It’s a matter of balance.” She explained, her eyes following the flows of power. “ Saidin is poisoned, but saidar can purify it, if used the right way. In the right place .”

Nynaeve looked at the weaving, her eyes narrowing in slow recognition.

“It's... similar to the way we cure madness.”

Lanfear tilted his head.

“Similar, but not the same. Corruption is deeper. More old .” She moved slowly a little further to the side, away from him, and Rand watched silently as her face slowly became more serious, deepening her own words as she spoke. “The trick is not to try to touch it , but in to hold on. You can’t touch it directly, even with the amount of power you have. That’s why you’ll need to make a circle.” Nynaeve opened her mouth to speak, but Lanfear held up a finger, silencing her. “I’ll show you how to do it later, pay attention.”

Nynaeve stiffened a little, but didn't complain, following her with her eyes as Lanfear slowly approached her.

“The basis of Rand's theory is that after channeling Saidin enough for the conduit, the taint will be drawn in its entirety to a similar but polarly opposite taint.” She paused, her lips curling into a small smile, and Rand unconsciously straightened his chest, bracing himself for the way she looked at him as she followed his train of thought and turned to face him. “You want to take this to Shadar Logoth, don’t you?”

Rand tried not to let the pride with which she looked at him affect him, but still, his hand itched where he had shoved it in his pocket, desperately wanting to reach up to the back of his neck.

“Yeah…” He murmured. “What do you think?”

“It could work, yes,” she murmured, turning her eyes back to the weaving. “All it would take is to keep a steady stream of Saidin passing through the conduit, and the taint will automatically be pulled into Shadar Logoth, as long as you maintain Saidin in direct contact with the evil of the city.” The smile on her lips widened and she turned to smile at him before returning them to the weaving in her hand. “This is a really good thread of thinking, Lews.”

Rand felt himself soften a little at the way her eyes lit up, briefly, between smiling and answering him and looking back at Nynaeve. There were memories now, he remembered, of another world, another life, where she had smiled at him in rapture as she explained details of her own research, animated and excited.

“You will need a more intricate circle of power.” She continued, murmuring to Nynaeve, oblivious to the way he was looking at her. “Rand will need to channel a vast amount of Saidin to be able to create a conduit between himself and the taint in Shadar Logoth, and he will need to maintain it flowing . You need to channel the same amount of Saidar, to stabilize the flow of the One Power and protect him from a physical and mental collapse. A circle as you know it would not hold the flow, keep power enough in your hands, until the taint was attracted and sucked by force into Shadar Logoth.” She paused. “You’ll need something better… stronger…”

She paused, tapping her little foot on the floor as she thought, that ridiculous little slipper making a noise against the marble. 

Adorable , Rand couldn't not notice. 

Her lips spread into a huge smile, and Rand shook his head, unable to stop his own smile, recognizing hers for what it was.

Mischievous.

“Cheer up, Nynaeve,” She purred to the brunette, lengthening the name. “You’re going to be the first person in three thousand years — well, maybe longer than that, if I’m honest; I’ve never really been one for teaching everything I’ve got — to learn a weave that’s one hundred percent original to Mierin Eronaile.” Her smile grew, those fangs flashing. “I’m going to teach you how to weave the Trium Aegis .”

~

Egwene was almost certain she was going to faint.

The oppressive heat, her body building up inside out, the tension vibrating in every Saidar thread, and most of all, Lanfear's presence, hovering around them like an inescapable shadow, like a damned hawk, drained her strength long before she could even begin the actual weaving.

Nynaeve, on the other hand, at the front point of the triangle drawn between them, looked as if she were going to die, so she assumed she wasn't doing so badly.

The woman's jaw was clenched, her arms crossed as if to protect herself, but her eyes—her eyes were alight with anger and pride, as they were always when she was pushed into something she didn't know how to do right— and Egwene almost wished she would just explode it already, just so she could see the damned woman in white have to endure the long speech she would be forced to hear.

Almost as if she could hear her thoughts, Lanfear stopped where she was, her eyes roaming over Nynaeve before her lips twisted into an expression of disgust.

Egwene took a deep breath.

Maybe she really wasn't that bad after all.

At least Moraine looked good, absolutely composed, on the left side of the imaginary triangle, her arms relaxed, and her gaze piercing and calculating.

A little ahead, watching them, Lanfear made an irritated noise — another — which made her feel like a child.

“For Light’s sake, do you know what a circle is?!” She grumbled, placing her hand on her waist, slamming that ridiculous damn slipper on the floor as they stared at her. “I’m sure if I knock one over, the other one won’t fall. It’s supposed to be a connection.” She snorted. “What are they teaching you people in this Age?”

Egwene stiffened her shoulders, resisting the urge to growl at her.

“You three must be in balance, or Nynaeve won’t be able to weave it.” She murmured, her voice falling into a softer, strangely educational cadence. She stepped forward, stopping in the very center of the triangle of their body, and raised a hand, tracing three luminous lines in the air, pure threads of power that crossed and intertwined, forming a perfect geometric figure: a triangle, its sides slowly rotating around themselves, like a living spiral. “The Trium Aegis.” She murmured, her tone laden with solemnity and depth. “It is a Triple Shield; a three-angle amplifier whose power returns to the tip of the triangle. Therefore, it’s supposed to be triple .”

Egwene frowned, taking in every detail.

She didn't recognize the structure; it wasn't anything the Tower had taught her and she wondered if it was common in her time. What else — what more — there was in the Age of Legends, that they would never see.

Lanfear continued.

“It is not a joining, nor a sharing… it is a holding.” She pointed to the lines, one at a time. “Three pillars, three functions, all indispensable, turning into one. If one fails, all collapses.” She moved toward Nynaeve, standing so close of her that Egwene saw the Wisdom jaw tighten even more. “You are the Pillar of Strength. The most important of the three. It keeps the central channel focused, stable, and physically and emotionally stable. It heals, sustains, anchors. The power will come back to yours hands, and you will direct it to balance Rand’s, so you need to do that well; you need to be able to control it, hold it .” She tilted her head, studying Nynaeve; her lips curled into a small smile. “Your stubbornness will serve for something, at least.”

Nynaeve remained silent, which, coming from her, was more eloquent than any words.

“You hold saidar like it’s a bomb about to explode and that won’t work here.” She murmured, her voice surprisingly patient. “ Relax. The One Power is not your enemy. It is an extension of you.” She watched the way the Wisdom held out her hand, pulling Power in. “You learned that from the Sea People, didn’t you?!”

Nynaeve turned her eyes to her in surprise.

“Think of the power as in the sea, then.” Lanfear murmured, one hand straightening her elbow, ignoring the way she tensed slightly at the touch. “The sea on a calm day, when the waters are gentle and you can feel the wind. Then,” She stressed, “If you are sure that you can feel the wind, then yes, think of a wave. A wave that grows and expands, according to how much Saidar you want to pull. Not from the beginning or you will never reach the maximum potential of your strength.”

She watched Nynaeve for a second longer, before giving a satisfied little huff and turning to face her; Egwene stiffened where she stood, her heart racing as her eyes locked with her, intense, unfathomable.

She resisted the urge to close her eyes.

She resisted the fear, and the feeling of that cell in his dreams.

“You are the pillar of will. You have less power than she does, but more control. More delicacy. The flow of Power will fluctuate, falter, twist… you must constantly adjust it, balance, redirect.” Egwene swallowed, trying to keep her expression neutral, even as she gritted her teeth against her anger. “It’s not just holding.” She went on, leaning in a little closer, her voice a sharp whisper, a knife, cutting as she had cut her in those dreams, again and again, from the inside out. “It’s adapting, feeling each shift before it happens. If you miss…” She straightened and glanced at the center of the triangle, where Rand would eventually be. “The man you’re meant to save falls apart.”

Egwene clenched her fists, ignoring the tremor that threatened to run up her arms.

“And for light's sake, I am not going to attack you.” She rolled her eyes at her. “Stop worrying about me and start to weave.”

It was easy for her to say.

It wasn’t her who had been tormented for months, for the sheer pleasure of cruelty and jealous. It wasn’t her who had visited her boyfriend’s dreams, found him in the place they used to share, and thought “isn’t it cute that he dreams of us” , only to find him holding another woman in his arms so tightly it might hurt, clinging to her as if she might vanish.

It wasn’t her who had heard the man she loved — in one way or another — moaning the enemy’s name, choking out another woman’s name while fucking her with a desperation and raw skill Egwene had never felt it before.

She hadn't been the one to discover that her boyfriend slept next to her, but in his dreams, in his mind , was someone else that he hold; every.damn.night.  

There was a reason she had waited a whole day to confront him, after all. That stupid part of her, that part that trusted him , had considered the possibility that it had been just one time. That she had invaded his dreams, coincidentally in the same say she was going to walk through it, and it had been a specific occasion and he wasn't used to it.

That he didn't want that.

So she waited.

She went back to that Waste, to that bed, and waited.

Waited until morning, and after she saw that all the dreams had changed — it was common, Bair had told her, for a dream to change during the night; for people to dream more than one thing in a night, especially between late night and morning, when one's consciousness and desires were most manifest — she went back to his dream again.

He was no longer in that rock.

Instead, he had wrapped her in his arms and kept his eyes closed; as if he wanted to pretend that he was really sleeping with her in his arms.

It wasn’t her who had seen those darkened blue eyes burning into her, glowing like she might enter her and devour her alive, as she rode her fucking boyfriend without breaking eye contact — not even once — until he grabbed her by the hair, yanked her head back, and made her fucking come while Egwene’s heart shattered into pieces.

It wasn’t her who had spent the following months wondering if one day she’d wake up with that woman suffocating her — not in dreams, but in reality.

It wasn’t her who had seen the woman who haunted her nightmares and fears tearing through two of the most powerful people she had ever known as if they were nothing.

She wasn’t the weakest link in the food chain; she was the fucking biggest lion of them all and of course it was easier for her to say.

It was not easier to her, and Egwene let out a sigh, loudly, as she walked away, but at least she gave her the decency to not look back, even though Egwene knew full well that she had heard as she headed toward Moiraine.

“You are the Pillar of Wisdom.” She muttered to Aes Sedai. “It keeps the structure intact, the outer barrier. It ensures that the forces do not escape into the world, that it do not destroy what is around you three.”  Moiraine nodded, easily, as if it were natural, but Egwene could see the way her fingers trembled as she weaved. “Don't think, feel.”

Lanfear then returned to the center, slowly turning, and raised both hands.

“Watch.”

Egwene couldn't help herself but to hold her breath as the woman began to weave, pulling iSaidar from inside them , balancing the scales.

It wasn’t just strands of Spirit, she noticed… It was a complex combination: strands of Spirit intersected with Air, forming arcs; Water flowed along the edges, reinforcing the lines; Earth formed anchor points at the ends. Fire surged in subtle bursts, reinforcing the intersections.

The weaving spun, alive, elegant and terrible.

“Each of you will hold one of these main lines,” Lanfear said, pointing precisely to each side of the triangle that rotated between them. “And at the same time, will feel the other two. Only then will the structure remain stable.”

She released the flow, and the weaving dissolved into strands of light that evaporated into the air.

“It is… tiring . It demands a lot from the channeler, both in terms of Power and in terms of skills in the Five Powers.” She blinked. “When I created it, it was to be used exclusively with channelers with an aptitude for the Five, but I…   adapted it for you.”

Egwene's eyes widened.

If that was an adapted version…

“Now… close your eyes.” She murmured, her voice falling into a soft, almost floating cadence. Egwene closed her eyes and pulled Saidar closer, feeling the familiar, comforting warmth fill her body, even though, at that moment, there was no comfort at all. Even though, no matter how… nice the Forsaken was, every hair on her body still stood on end every time she spoke. “And try.”

Egwene focused on her line, Spirit and Air, slowly adjusting every curve, every connection. 

And, after a moment, she gasped, she felt as more power circled around her. 

Felt as Nynaeve and Moiraine, feeling their flow, adjusted it as each one of them moved their power, slowly becoming one, the power flowing to the first as if it was being pulled to her.

The structure began to form. 

Imperfect, hesitant… but… there .

It was beautiful, she blinked. Beautiful and powerful — she could already feel what it would be like to really weaved it — and she wanted to touch , to feel what the power look like —

“More tension at the apex!” Lanfear snapped, her voice a thunder in her head, and Egwene realized with a start, that her line was too slack, her attention flowing.

She adjusted quickly, pulling in more of the Power, feeling the weaving stabilize.

"Better." Lanfear murmured, as if praising a dog that had finally learned to sit. A child who stopped crawling and started walking. Egwene fought the urge to grit her teeth, forcing herself to keep the spinning — fragile — triangle present.

Sweat ran down her back, the effort of maintaining tension and at the same time staying in sync with the other two women making her dizzy.

It wasn't just difficult.

It was… exhausting.

And yet a part of her — that part that had always wanted to master every strand of the One Power — felt a dark thrill. That desire  to ask what else could that detestable woman teach.

How much more was it possible to learn.

“Good.” Lanfear murmured, stopping before them, arms crossed, a thin smile on her lips.

Beautiful, the thought came to her without her being able to control it. 

She was cruel, and hurtful, and she had tortured her in her dreams, haunted her with memories she longed to forget, but she was beautiful ; beautiful in a way that made her feel strange.

Beautiful in a way it didn't seem natural.  

Even the way she moved was seductive, Egwene had noticed earlier when she had tilted her head at Rand and smiled before pushing herself out of the chair; soft yet commanding, dangerous , perfectly aware of who she was — how powerful she was — and the effect she had.

And the voice…

Somehow it seemed like sin, like something forbidden, when she said Rand's name — Rand or Lews, whichever variation she chose to say — as if she were speaking inside him, pushing her hand into his chest and squeezing, pulling, making it seem like she was saying something else entirely—something much deeper, more important— every time.

“Very good.”

She murmured once more, and Egweneand saw something that almost looked like... approval in her eyes.

She hated herself.

Hated that the look — a single look — had made her want to receive another. 

To want more.

Hated that for a second, the way Mat spoke to her, respect perfectly disguised as provocation, made sense; that that look deeply sweet that Rand assumed every time they interact — not just because Rand was lost to her, but because she had, somehow, at some point, conquered Mat — was understandable.

Hated that for a second she had understood why Rand was so taken in her.

Why he adored her, unable to take his eyes off her after she entered a room. Why he would completely soften when she smiled at him, so deeply that you could see it in his whole body, from the soles of his feet to the strands of his hair. Why he kept looking at her as if she were the most beautiful, most important, most loved in the world, half leaning against the door of the hall while she taught them to weave something they would never see if it weren't for her.

Why it was so hard for him to give up a woman who protected him like she had, destroying everything, ripping out a damn spine with her bare hands, and whose same hands still had touched him so gently and lovingly as he tried to breathe — breathing with him, respecting his fear, the trauma — and then caressing his forehead as he slept.

She understood, for a moment; because as powerful as she was — probably more intelligent and knowledgeable that anyone in this entire city — she still was in love with him.

Blatantly, undeniably, in love with him.

And it was flattering, Egwene supposed, to be loved by someone like her.

It was already flattering to receive a glimpse of recognition from her, imagine receiving what she let shine in those blue eyes when she looked at him.

Mat had been right in what he had said, in those three days when they had all been terrified by what they had seen, by the way he had been hurt, by the prospect of him dying — him; Rand, Rand, Rand, her Rand, their Rand — and she had sat in the chair in his room as if she owned the place, her eyes roving over him every time he moved in bed. 

She had protected his dreams, as she had said she would — the softness in her words  had surprised her as much as what she had done before.

Egwene had done the same, when she thought that Lanfear wasn’t doing it — when she looked perfectly normal, not an inch of indication that she was Dreamwalking — only to feel those blue-and-black eyes burning into her back. 

She had not driven her away, though. 

Egwene known she could. She had kept her trapped in that dream the last time she had visited them, when Rand had summoned her into a dream, even when she had tried with all her strength and skill to tear herself away. 

She could have banished her from his dreams, but she didn’t, letting her watch over his dreams when the fear began to circle her chest again, and though Egwene still wished — truly wished — someone would kick the hell out of her ass, give her what she deserved, she supposed it had been... nice of her.

It wasn’t hard to see that Mat was right.

Anyone who saw them together — who saw the way he looked when looking at her; how he had relaxed in her arms — safe in her arms — softened under her eyes, —would know it.

There was no going back from that.

Rand would never get over that woman.

“Look at that.” She muttered where she stood, tapping that ridiculous slipper against the floor again, the smile growing even wider on her lips until it was big and wide, fangs gleaming, as she watched the triangle that slowly remained stable before her, and Egwene blinked. “Maybe there is hope for you all, after all.”

Mat was right.

And Egwene didn’t hate that , but she hated even more that when Rand smiled at Lanfear from the doorway, half propped up, his head tilted slightly to look at her, she was smiling at her too.

Chapter Text

Rand let his body relax into the water with a sigh.

“Where exactly are we now?”

She gave him an incomprehensible sigh in response, a jumble of words, and Rand opened his eyes, searching for her, curiously; his mouth went dry as his gaze found hers, her eyes closed and her head thrown back against the walls of the fountain, the ends of her wet hair disappearing into the water.

Light, he blinked, that was a very beautiful woman.

“Would you believe me if I told you it was just some cave somewhere?!” She whispered to him, her eyes still closed, but that little smile had begun to play on her lips, just a curve of her lips, and Rand straightened slightly, curiosity rising within him.

It had not surprised him that she had not adapted to the bathing methods of that Age.

They were, in the words she had muttered as she dragged him to this place that felt like a lost paradise, ‘crude, inefficient and uncomfortable and do little but cool and become icy in the better part of the bath’ and he supposed that, considering who she was and how dedicated to having a good, comfortable, life she was, it was to be expected that she would have found, by her own methods, something that pleased her very high standards

Now, with the warmth of the water around his body, Rand couldn’t deny that it pleased him too, and he let himself sink a little deeper, his tense muscles giving way to the ease. It was relaxing, he supposed, not having to worry about the waters getting cold and him having to get out before he started shivering. The air here was warm, humid, with a subtle mineral scent he didn’t recognize, and the waters had a warmth that didn’t fade, just the right amount of hot.

It was a vast cavern, he noted, and the pool they were in occupied the center of it, steam rising from the water, the water giving off a silvery glow, reflecting the stalactites that hung from the ceiling, a pale shade of blue and lavender.

It seemed a little mystical.

He snorted.

“Well, now that you say it like that, no, I wouldn't.”

Lanfear laughed, a real laugh this time, the sound echoing, carried through the structure of the cave. She opened her eyes, tilting her head to the side to look at him, the back of her neck still resting against the rock.

“It is just a cave somewhere.” She purred at him, dipping her hands into the water and stirring it with her fingers, and Rand was almost relaxing, almost closing his eyes, when she spoke again, looking up from below to look at him in that petulant, knowing way. “The 'somewhere’ that is the important part.”

Rand let out an exasperated sigh, lifting his body from where he had leaned it again, abandoning the warm rock to look at her suspiciously, and she laughed again in amusement.

“Oh, relax.” She laughed, and he heard the sound of the water moving gently, her fingers still playing with the surface, making a silent melody. “If you really want to know… we’re on an island.” She paused, her fingers gently moving under the water, her voice taking on that familiar teasing tone. “A lost Seachan Island.”

Rand couldn't help but laugh as the words penetrated his ears and his mind.

“Oh, you really are a danger, aren’t you?!” He snorted, noting the way her eyes crinkled slightly as she laughed. “If you knew where it was all along, couldn’t you have just… told him?”

“Ah, but where would be the fun in that?!” She laughed, raising an eyebrow at him, stretching her body forward to poke at the water. “It’s not an achievement if it’s given to you, and he is a conquer. He likes conquering; he is a war general, it's in his blood. Besides… we are on the island, but if he finds it, he won't find this part of it. It’s lost in a legend that died long ago.” She blinked at him, before leaning back against the rock. “You’ve heard about it. Before.”

Rand frowned, craning his neck at her curiously.

“It has been sought after in the Age of Legends but no one has ever found it. Not even those Aes Sedai who had devoted their lives to seeking out the sources and natural manifestations of the One Power.” She paused, drawing the words out in that low, sensual tone, a whispered, knowing tease. “The king’s waters.”

Rand’s eyes widened, his mind automatically searching for and recognizing the words, memories that were not his but were—now free and unscrambled—accessible in his mind. His elbow slammed loudly against the stone as he jerked upward, his eyes wide with surprise.

Unbelief.

He choked, the word, the name echoing.

"Nakira?!"  

Lanfear smiled like a lazy cat in the sun, satisfied, triumphant.

Rand gasped where he stood, knowledge flooding his mind.

It was a mythical place, so ancient that even in the Age of Legends it was considered a rumor — a joke among scholars, a trophy that would never be raised; a source of pure waters that had supposedly sunk, hidden by the tides of time and the earth itself, on an island never found.

The home of a live resonance with the One Power, capable of healing.

They called it The King's Waters .

“But… that was fiction,” Rand muttered, more to himself than to her. “A legend, a myth created by Historians to justify the search for forgotten sa’angreal’s. It was never proven. It was impossible to find, no one never —”

“No one but me.” Lanfear corrected him, smugness bordering on the unbearable on her lips. “You know how I fell about the word ‘impossible’...” She curdled her lips into a smile. “I really don't like her.”

Rand ran a wet hand over his face, his thoughts racing.

“They said the water could heal the scars of the soul.”

She tilted her head.

“The legends exaggerated a bit on that point.” She muttered, shrugging, her hands still playing with the water. “It can’t heal …but it can calm down .”

The words fell from her lips slowly, almost reverently. Rand stood still for a moment, the warm water covering his torso, his distorted reflection rippling before him.

Calm down.

“They say the resonance of this place was too old to be understood. That part doesn’t really matter.” Lanfear continued, his voice low, soft. “What matters is what they said about the Power here. That it can’t be used — only felt —, but that the fabric of reality is... more thin .” She slid one of her hands underwater, as if touching something he couldn’t see. “You felt it, didn’t you?! That stillness… like the world outside didn’t exist?”

Rand nodded slowly.

He had thought it was the bath at first, the warm, soft comfort that almost seemed to embrace him. It was the water , he realized, his body going limp, as if he were out of time. Without the constant pressure of the Task.

Without the burden of Fate.

“It’s been sought for a few hundred years, you remember. There were still a few people looking for it before everything blew up.” She continued, her eyes fixed on the faint glow of the water. “Even before the Age of Legends, I think. There were records in the library at Collam Daan.”

“How did you find it?”

“Research.” She shrugged, but Rand saw the way the words had been slurred. “Time.”

There was more, he knew.

He wondered if she would say.

She did.

“After… after I open it, I was… lost . More than you can imagine. I had started looking for some forgotten sa'angreal's , fragments of the Power, anything that could help me close it. All I could find was emptiness. Echo. Nothing satisfied me. So...” She paused, and her voice grew quiet. “So I came here. I’d found the island years before, but it hadn’t mattered at the time; a lost island was no use to me back then. But I wanted to be quiet for a while; without the voices — his and the world’s — and I thought an island in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by seas that changed the routes of ships every day, was a good place to try.” She shrugged again. “The Power drew me, and I ended up here.”

She laughed, loudly.

“Fall on my ass in the water because the cave is below the earth and not on it and I was walking around like an idiot, not looking where I was stepping.”

Rand watched her for a while, the way she let her fingers trail carefully through the water; the relaxed way she had been, her head resting against the rock, her legs stretched out in front of her, her body buoyant with the One Power before she let them sink into the water.

“You stayed here for too long?”

“Not really. Came back a few times, but didn't stayed.” She stated softly. “Sometimes I slept for days. Sometimes for minutes. Sometimes I just sat here and felt the water. Or the emptiness. Or what was left of me.”

She said the last sentence in a whisper, without bitterness, but also without remorse.

Just true.

Rand felt the water around him pulse faintly, as if he had heard it. Not a power that bent to his will, but a... presence. A warm echo of something deep, ancient. Something he knew.

Nakira.

The King's Waters. A place of silence. Of harmony. Where, they said, the fragments of the soul could rest. Where those who carried the burdens of ages could, for a moment, breathe.

“Did you bring anyone else here?”

He asked, even though he already knew the answer. 

“No.” She shook her head slowly. “Only you.”

He stared at his own reflection in the water, cloudy and unsteady.

“Why?”

She shrugged.

“Because you are lost too.”

She was being sincere, he knew. Sincere and truthful, not even looking up from the water to speak, perfectly unaffected, giving him enough time to acknowledge to himself that she was right. That he was, in fact, getting lost in his own mind, in his memories, and that was good—it was good , he sighed — to have a moment like that.

A moment where he didn't need to worry, didn't need to think , and just… be there.

With her.

With him.

“Thank you.”

His voice was a whisper that she recognized with a careless movement of her right hand.

“I really want to change the name, though.” She stammered, shooting him a quick glance. “I mean, ‘the king’s waters’ ?! Seriously? He wasn’t even that good of a king.” She snorted. “Sure, he did make one or two weaves and discovers and they were the basis for Lews to develop some things that I suppose changed lives and all that litany, but I check it" she stressed, pointing her finger at him as if he was going to contradict her, “And it was not that complex. Elan would have figured it out in four months; two if he were being properly driven. Besides, who the hell names a mystical spring around a man?!"

She snorted.

“It’s almost offensive. I mean, to that part of the library in Collan Daan be named In my name, I had to work my beautiful ass off in researches and discoveries — even wrote a book about it; and then someone names this under an idiot king just because he ruled at the time it was discovered and came here often?! This Age is ridiculous and pathetic in knowledge, and I know I pretty much fucked up the world, but at least it’s the women who hold the power now .” She grumbled, her brow furrowing, and Rand felt a smile begin to spread across his face. She was adorable when she got excited, he realized. “And, he was terrible at it too. At governing. I looked it up. He was a tyrant who thought he was the center of the universe and who didn’t even know how to properly take care of his own kingdom. Ruined the kingdom’s economy at the time, trying to conquer an empire.”

She continued, pushing herself away from the stone wall, her hands moving in front of her as she spoke excitedly.

“And then he tried to use the One Power, kind of on the sly, to channel it here, thinking that the water had properties that could freeze time and he could fix the mess. In the end, what happened was that he trapped himself inside this cave, or rather, inside the water itself, and it took him a few months to get out — serves him right, nobody told him to be that idiot.” She added, and if she had been standing, Rand would have bet she’d stamped that little foot. “They say the island was marked by his presence, a piece of him trapped between the physical world and the fabric of the Power.”

She snorted again.

“That’s where all this nonsense comes from, that the waters could cure anything; because he came in here one way and came out looking like another person because he used too much Power and couldn’t control it, rejuvenating his own body as a result. The truth is that this energy here is real, but some of it isn’t magic; it’s an ancient echo, a resonance of the One Power that has intertwined with the Power that the waters themselves already possessed.”

Lanfear tapped her fingertips in the water, forming concentric circles.

“From a scientific point of view, what we have here is a hydrothermal cavern, with super-hot water sources rich in rare minerals — sulfur, magnesium, calcium — that affect the body and mind. That’s why the water has such a constant temperature and that slightly phosphorescent glow. The heat and minerals relax the body, stimulate circulation, and even influence the chemical balance of the brain, releasing that feeling of deep peace. It’s no wonder that those who came here before said that ‘the water calms the soul.’ It’s not magic, it’s science — and the One Power only amplifies all of this, making the experience almost transcendental.”

She took a deep breath, her eyes shining even brighter.

“Of course, there’s something different here. Something I can’t explain. That part about the live resonance with the One Power is true and I would, indeed, like to understand it.” She pondered, and then snorted. “But it’s definitely not enough to — what?!” She stopped, finally looking at him. “Is there something on my face?”

“No, no just…” Rand laughed, delighted, delighting in the way her cheeks reddened slightly, almost as if she were embarrassed at being caught excited. “How the hell do you even know this stuff?”

“Homeschooling.” She teased, raising an eyebrow, and even though the thought of the Dark as a father — her father — was still too strange for him to fathom, Rand saw the reference for what it was, and couldn’t help but laugh. “Lews might have been the greatest channeler of the Age of Legends, Rand, the greatest Aes Sedai, but he was a soldier, not a scholar.” She shrugged. “Elan and I had more… aligned goals. We liked to learn. Research.”

“I’m not him.” Rand murmured, because he wanted to say it. He felt he needed to say it, after what had happened in Tar Valon; after Lews had spoken through his mouth and they had finally become one. “I mean, I am him. But I’m not only him."

“If I wanted you to be only him, I wouldn’t even have brought you here.” She whispered, then smiled at him. “Lews wouldn’t see half of what you do about me, Rand; what you already did. I mean, he was smart — he was really smart — but at the same time, he’d always been… hyper-focused. He saw what he saw, once, and then would never try again. A soldier, like I said, didn’t matter what rank.”

She paused.

“I couldn’t trust him with my secrets. Never told him half of what I had.  It's part of the reason I could still talk to Shai’tan even when he trapped us.” Lanfear blinked, and Rand silently thanked the Light and the Wheel and himself that he had, somehow, managed to make her comfortable enough — trust him enough — to say the words. Because he wanted to know. Wanted to hear and wanted to learn enough to break her out it’s hands. “He never knew how much I had in me; made a prison that I could still make my conscience overcome.” 

She murmured carefully, her voice lowering the longer he spoke, as if she were almost afraid to say the words. 

“This… It’s new. This conversation, I mean. With Lews, it were always declarations, even when he didn’t mean it to be. When we didn’t mean it to be. Arguments, in a way. My ego against his. My skills, my accomplishments, against his. With you…” She snorted. “You actually listen. I can speak and not be corrected. Or fought.” She growled the next word, irritated. “Or contained.”

Rand didn't respond, letting her speak.

“I loved Lews. Still do. Loved his soul, not the body. But we were… well, I kind of want to say stupid. Or immature, in a way.” She laughed, turning onto her side, propping her face on her hand, her elbow pressed against the rock. “And you… You are young, Rand — even with your soul being old —, softer in a good way, but you scare the crap out of me.” She snorted, and Rand raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You’re dangerous — not in the way you think you are.” She stated, before the thought had even begun to form in his head. “Not with the Power. With… this .” She waved her hand lightly between them. “I don’t like feeling out of control. And I can’t control how you make me feel.”

Rand made a disbelieving noise.

She frowned, almost confused, and he laughed, unable to contain himself.

“Mierin, I can’t think when I'm close to you, and I’m the one who makes you feel out of control?!” He snorted, watching the way a drop of water ran down her thin arms as she tilted her head to look at him, her face soft as if his words sank as deep into her as the way she looked at him did to him. “It scares me, too.” Rand whispered. “I’m afraid I’ll be forced to choose between you and the world, for real, and I don’t know what answer I’d give and it terrifies me.” He confessed. “And… what you said before…about your… father .” 

She stiffened slightly where she stood, and Rand turned to face her fully. Drawing her eyes to him with a pat on the water. 

“That scares me, too. That scared me more than anything you’ve ever said to me, I think.” He snorted, and felt more than saw the way her body began to stiffen, preparing for what he would say. “But I’ll deal with it. I’ll deal with it, Lanfear, because If you believe me or not right now, I love you more than he does.”

She held her breath where she stood, her eyes widening slightly, as if the words had been screamed, and Rand took a deep breath, pushing his body forward, braving the water to get closer to her.

“And that hunger you mentioned… I know Lews never understood it. And… I may not understand it either. But I’ll try.” He stated, tracing the curve of her bare collarbone with his finger. “I’ll try, but I’ll need your help to do it. Because I don’t see power the way you do. It’s… it’s a burden to me. It weighs me down while to you, it’s wings. So I’ll promise to try to understand, if you promise to tell me; if you’ll explain to me why you need it and what it means to you. Can you that?”

“Yeah.” She murmured to him, slow and sure. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Rand took a deep breath.

“Okay, then.”

She frowned, confused, when he didn’t say anything else.

“That’s it?” She asked, her face twisted into a puzzled grimace that Rand found utterly adorable. “You’re not going to... repeat that whole speech about the dangers of being hungry for power and all that thing about being a good person, threaten to leave me if I don’t live by it?” She blinked, slowly, trying to pretend otherwise, but Rand still saw the fear beneath the falsely calm expression — beneath the sarcasm. “Not going to run?”

Something inside him softened, and he was moving toward her before he realized it, pressing his body to hers.

“Not running. Not leaving you behind. In fact…” He said, stroking her chin with his finger before letting his hand fall back into the water. Her eyes were fixed on him when he spoke, firm and resolute. “I’m going to steal you from him, Mierin Eronaile.”

She let out a soft, startled sound, but Rand didn’t give her time to think before leaning down and pressing his lips to hers. He realized — only as he did it — that it had been years since the last time he kissed her

She still tasted the same. 

Still felt soft and warm in his arms, and Rand let out a satisfied sound as she pressed her bare chest to his, her arms wrapping around his neck with hunger. She made a noise into his mouth — something sweet and hungry at once — her fingers tangling in his hair, and Rand gasped softly when she parted her legs, pulling him closer, making room for him as he pushed her body back against the warm rock that edged the hot spring, her wet hair clinging to her back and dragging against his fingers.

She moaned low and needy as he bit her lower lip gently, and the sound echoed inside him like silent thunder, dragging fire through his veins.

One kiss, he breathed deeply, and he was already hard as a rock.

“Shit.” Rand choked against her mouth, one hand reaching for the rock behind her body to steady himself, his breath rising and falling as he looked at her. Those eyes were glowing, burning with a mix of disbelief and desire that nearly made his knees buckle — and he laughed. “Lews must have really been an idiot.”

She laughed.

Something adorable and cute; almost embarrassed, her cheeks a little red, as if she wasn’t used to it. She wasn’t, Rand remembered. She was used to having the world at her feet, enchanting men and women with that beautiful face, but no one ever disputed what a fool Lews had been to let her go; people only remembered what she’d done afterward, not who she’d been before she’d opened the Bore.

“Yeah, well…” She shrugged. “I didn’t make it exactly easy for him.”

He raised an eyebrow at her in disbelief, still holding her against his chest.

“And since when do you make it easy for me?!"

“Oh, I’m making it very easy for you.” She stated. “I could be a lot worse with your stupid ass almost dying on me; not to mention” She pointed her finger at him, at his chest. “I’m being civil and not ripping the bones out of that idiot redhead who keeps giving you heart eyes and begging ‘oh please, me, fuck me , my dragon lord’ with them all the time, even when I’m in the room. Very, very stupid, dangerous , move.”

“Light.” Rand let out a muffled groan, giving a step back in the water and to the side, and then closed his eyes, sinking his chin into the water; it was still on fire, the water and him. His voice sounded muffled when he spoke. “Sorry about that.” He grumbled, lifting his face, little air bubbles emerging where he’d hidden it. “She didn’t know.”

“And tell me… My Lord.” Lanfear arched an eyebrow at him, fishing for words, those eyes burning at him, down to his chest, naked and clean, then flying back to his eyes like a flash; forced to remain there. “What is there to know?”

Rand shook his head, smiling.

“You are unbearable.”

“And yet, here you are. In a mystical pool, in the middle of a cursed island… bearing it, ” She bent the word until there was no doubt it was another thing she meant, lips open in that deviously smile. “Real, real nicely.”

“Hey, you kidnapped me.” He sneered, laughed, his cheeks reddening. “Ripped me out of my room, no explanation; I’ve being under a lot of pressure . ”

She hummed.

“Debatable.”

“Says who?”

“Me, of course.” She snorted at him, sarcastic and playful and pleased. “Your innocent good-guy shepherd morals cloud your critical perception, so obviously I’m the best person for that kind of evaluation.”

Rand choked on his laughter.

“My ‘good-guy, innocent shepherd morals’?!” He snorted in amusement, but he couldn’t let the words sink in. “I haven’t been a shepherd for a long time.”

“No.” She agreed, letting the teasing and mockery slowly fade away. “No, you haven’t.” She blinked. “But you’re not a soldier either.” She paused, and Rand stared ahead at the distorted reflection of the two of them on the calm surface of the water. She watched him for a moment before speaking. “When I take us back, it’s going to hurt again.”

He didn't say anything, but she continued.

“It’s going to feel like everything’s gotten heavier for a while; just a few minutes. The silence will feel fake. The world will start screaming again. But it will pass.” She paused, leaning toward him. “And you’re going to be okay, cariad. You’re going to stay on your feet. No knees. No bracelets, no necklaces. On your feet.”

Rand swallowed, the familiar lump of emotions rising in his throat.

“That’s… that’s what you did? Came back here when you were too close to breaking?”

“No.” The answer came quickly. “I use to came back when I thought I couldn’t resist enough to win.” She paused, her eyes widening slightly as if she hadn’t meant to say the words. “When I needed to stop feeling, and just think."  

Rand looked at her, and for a moment, Lanfear seemed a lot less ageless. A lot less imposing. Just… human. Scared.

“And did it work?” he asked quietly.

She gave a melancholy smile. “Sometimes.”

She blinked, once or twice before speaking.

“In this age, I come here every day to take a proper bath.”

Rand snorted, a loud laugh echoing, and let the cavern keep his words to itself.

The feeling.

“Of course that you would choose a mystical source searched for thousands of years for that .”

~

Elayne Trakand discovered, stabbing and deepening that wound that had been born—slowly, so slowly that she had barely noticed it coming until it hurt—in her heart, that she had never seen Rand al’Thor happy.

She had seen him laugh, of course, and—a few times—laugh out loud, but it wasn't until she saw him truly happy that she realized how different it was. 

It had been easy to fall in love with him, she sighed softly.

He was a handsome, polite, and pleasant man, and the way he carried the weight of the world—with grace, courage, and diligence—even though the toll and the sinking of his shoulders was obvious, had only made her fall a little more in love with the man beneath the crown and the red cloak.

He was sincere, truthful in his difficulties, honest in his struggle—against the darkness and against himself—and fair ; she had worked hard to learn how to rule—to learn a political game that was taught to kings and queens from the moment they were born—and she did not let defeats outweigh victories, no matter how small. She put her people before herself, nearly passing out from sleep more times than she could remember in the six months she had spent trying to conquer and stabilize Caemlyn and Andor, refusing to stop until the people— her people — were fed and covered and safe . 

He was humble enough to ask when he didn't know something and needed help—at least in the first few months, before that downward spiral started to get a little more pronounced—and he was kind , holding children who looked up to him as if he held the sun, but he sought no glory, no adoration—he simply did what he believed was right, even when the weight of that duty threatened to crush him; even when it seemed to be crushing him one step at a time as he climbed the steps to another throne—carrying a sense of responsibility she had rarely seen in other men.

Never seen, Elayne blinked, slowly.

The way he spoke when he was well, when he was in control of that stain inside him… a simplicity that contrasted so directly with his position; a fragile balance between strength and vulnerability, between power and fear, between light and shadow, that he maintained better than she could ever have imagined.

That, she knew, was what had won her over.

There was a difference, a separation between Rand al'Thor and the Dragon Reborn, even though he was both, and they were both him, and she had discovered, at some point in the last two years, that she had fallen in love with both of them.

And for a few moments, for a few rare moments when the war had taken a back seat, she had thought he had fallen in love with her too.

It was subtle.

Little gestures—a look, a hesitant word, an effort to protect her even when he didn’t need to—that she had come to love. The way he’d looked at her sometimes. The way he’d deliberately chosen to seek her advice in those early days as king. Those nights watching the stars shine over Andor. The gentle touch on her forearm, stopping her when she’d trailed off. The way his eyes would light up for a quick, fleeting second when he’d laughed at something she’d said.

That night in the highest Tower of Caemlyn, when he finally— finally — didn't pull away when she got a little closer, like he had every other time she had tried— considered trying , with him pulling away before she even had the chance. When he didn't push her away when she stood on tiptoe to reach him— that tall, broad and his body rising like a mountain in front of her— and pressed her lips to his.

He kissed her back.

For a moment, the Reborn Dragon had kissed her back, soft lips moving over hers, a hand lightly supporting her waist, and a tingling had started in her toes, burning her, propelling her closer to him, her arm wrapping around his neck, as she tried to deepen the kiss.

And then he shrank.

He cringed as if he were bruised and she had let go of him so quickly, she stumbled back slightly.

I can't. He had whispered.

She had thought it was because of the war; because he had this unspoken certainty that he was going to die, because he seemed to close himself off more and more to each of them every day— an impenetrable wall —and didn’t want to give her any space. Because he had a goal, a purpose, and didn’t want to focus on anything other than himself. She had thought it was because he wanted to stay alone and had told him that, that he didn’t need to be alone, to face all this alone, and he had made a low noise, half choking, half disgusted with himself, and Elayne had frowned and not understood at all when he whispered a “ no, it’s not — Light, it’s not that” and slowly took a step back, mumbling a muffled apology and leaving her at the top of that tower, alone with the stars.

She hadn't understood until three nights ago.

She didn't start to understand until he thrust Callandor into his own chest, to prevent himself from hurting a Forsaken.

She had seen her before.

In that dream she herself had created, before she arrived — summoned by him, without even realizing it, lost in thought as he watched the sunset — and controlled everything, taking control of the dream enough to make some of the words she spoke to him sound groggy, too dull to be understood from where they were.

He had held her before she disappeared, a hug too tight and too intimate, but she had never appeared again, in dreams or in real time, and Elayne had assumed — naively, she realized now — that whatever that was had met its end as the days, months — years — passed by.

Lanfear.

Nausea rose in her throat, and Elayne raised the glass to her lips, trying to disguise the bitter taste with the sweet wine.

She was beautiful.

Too beautiful.

Elayne wondered if it would be easier to swallow her presence, if she could say that was why Rand had fallen under her spell. That she had winked at him, and he had forgotten how much violent she was; dangerous and cruel and that she had ripped out a person’s spine three days ago and didn’t even seem to remember it, perfectly unbothered —even if it had been for him.

That she calls the Dark One father.

It would be easier to accept, Elayne imagined, if it were true —as she had thought at that first moment— that he had let himself be carried away by her beauty, by the seduction that emanated from her so easily, for whatever well-told lie she had told him, and forgot whose she was?!

But it was hard to say that, even to herself, when his words were still ringing in her head, because he was honest — sincere—after all, it had been one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him.

And it had been the reason why, as Lanfear dragged a positively frightened Nynaeve, an Egwene whose anger seemed to emanate from her, and a Moiraine whose hands were shaking slightly into a room to teach them weaving, he had taken her elbow, as carefully as ever, as she started toward the door and silently asked her to stay.

He had stood still for a moment, his face contorted into that expression she had learned to interpret as guilt and she had stiffened in response, forcing her spine to remain straight, her chin held high, even when everything in her wanted to wither.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, firm and clear. “For not explaining. Before.” He paused, as if choosing which words to say. The best way to say what he wanted to say without hurting her, because she knew that that was exactly what he was trying not to do. “For not telling you that I don’t own my heart before you tried to conquer it.”

She had sucked in a breath so hard that she had taken a soft step back, moving a little away from him.

“I can’t give it to you.” He stated, sending his hand into his pants pocket, his other arm close to his body. “You don’t deserve half , Elayne, and as long as she exists, as long as I exist, half is much more than I have left to offer.”

Her eyes had burned, but she had not looked away; she had not lowered her chin.

“Do you love her?” She asked, and she hated herself for the tremor she had heard in her own voice, but she did not take the question back.

It was a stupid question, she supposed. 

She had seen how much he loved her. 

They all had seen how much he loved her in the second madness had surfaced in his mind, and he didn’t see anyone else in a room full of people, his whole body leaning towards her.

To kill her.

First you kill those you loved most.

She wanted to hear him say it, anyway.

“Yes.” He had answered, and even though the arm at his side seemed to tighten slightly with the weight of the word, he didn’t pull it away. He didn’t take his eyes off her as he continued, nor did he try to pretend otherwise when he reiterated the words. “Yes, I love her, yes.”

As if it were simple.

As if it were as irremediable as those dragons that shone golden on his arms.

“Why?” He had whispered, unable to stop himself, taking a deep breath, filling his lungs with air. With courage. “Why her?"

He had smiled then.

Not for her, but for some memory she had no right to want to know, but she wanted to.

“Because she fights for the left side of the bed, never gives up on it, but she sleeps on top of me more than she does on it.” He had murmured, and his eyes had shone with the words themselves, with a meaning she didn’t understand. “Because she looks at me and I feel like I’m going to explode.” He had laughed, softly and affectedly. “Like I am naked and she is seeing all of me, inside and out. And because with her…” He had paused, reconsidering his own words. “Because with someone else, with anyone else, I feel like I have to be everything. I have to be strong, I have to be right, I have to be worthy. Everything, all at once. I have to be everything, all the time.” He looked away for a second, letting his eyes wander to the door where she had left, and then he let the air, the words, out slowly. “But with her… I just am. I’m just me. ” He had blinked, once, twice. “And because with her… with her, I want to live."

She had tried —and failed— not to cringe at that last part; at the implications of that. 

And he had stared at her, his breath shallow, as if he had spoken too quickly, touched too deeply, and Elayne had swallowed, noticing the way his eyes looked tired, how worn he looked—still feeling the effects of what he had done three days ago, but still looking satisfied . 

Irrevocably satisfied with his own actions; with the fact that, in one way or another, he had kept her safe.

“I know who she is.” Rand had whispered. “I know she’s cruel and jealous and dangerous — mean when she wants to be, petty too — and I know that the only reason she didn't kill everyone when she had the chance — several chances — it's because she loves me and doesn't want to lose me. I know that. That she is a monster in someone’s eyes. And I know you can't understand how I can say that and still love her." He had searched her eyes for a second. "But I know who she is ; beneath the masks and the power and all that. And I know what it's like to be loved by her. And to be loved by her, Elayne… it's like walking in the sun. Like —like being flooded by the One Power until you float , until you can't breathe , overwhelming and destructive and so particular , so unique and perfect to yourself, that one time changes you forever.”

He had taken another deep breath, lowered his head slightly to the floor before raising it to her again, as if he were embarrassed—shy—not of what he felt, but of the raw, direct way he had said the words to her.

“I don’t own my heart.” He had repeated, softer. “And I can’t give you what doesn’t belong to me.” Elayne had bitten the inside of her cheek, tasting the metallic taste; he had seen it. “I never meant to —” He had begun, but stopped, his gaze slipping away from her for the first time. Embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to lead you on. I'm sorry if I did.”

And she knew, she knew , that he was being sincere.

Because he was a handsome, polite and pleasant man, but above all, he was sincere and honest and good , and he didn't want to hurt anyone, he didn't want to break anything beyond what the Pattern had already determined he would need.

So even though it had hurt, even though his words had hurt and their meaning even more so, Elayne had taken a deep breath, straightened the folds of her skirt, and looked up at him again and smiled.

“It’s okay, Rand,” she had whispered to him, and it wasn’t true, but it wasn’t a lie either. “It’s okay." She had smiled at him, hoping he couldn't see the burning wound in her chest. "I'll be fine."

“You will be an extraordinary queen.” He said finally, in a whisper, with that slanted, sad smile, as if he wanted it to be a gift and knew it wasn’t.

And she had taken a deep breath, her chest aching beneath the tight corset, but she had not answered.

She didn't thank him.

Because that sentence, said in that way, sounded like a farewell, and she didn't want to dress it in politeness.

And it had hurt to leave him behind, to walk away from that room, but he hadn't turned to watch her leave, hadn't hesitated , keeping his eyes and body in the same position, his back to the door, and when she left, Elayne had wondered, if it would have hurt more if he had.

But he hadn't.

And now, as she watched them together, as she watched hm, she couldn't help but feel her chest ache with the realization that that’s what  he looked like when he was happy and that was why he hadn't hesitated once with any of the words he'd said about her; because that was how he looked when he wanted to live, and in the last two years, she had never seen it so clearly, not once.

The night itself seemed like something separate in time.

A momentary truce that the Pattern somehow seemed to have woven for them.

The dining hall of the Sun Palace was especially bright that night, the large table in the center illuminated by the array of golden torches that spread across the hall, reflecting off the white marble walls, the aroma of spices and roasting meats filling the air.

They would return to reality tomorrow, each one dispersing to a different place, but for one day, Elayne blinked, they were all spread out around the table for a shared dinner. Aviendha was at her side, as they always did at every opportunity they found, a solid and comforting presence, warmth emanating from her body, her knees discreetly touching hers under the table.

It was like that between them — unofficial, but undeniable.

Not a whole — neither for herself nor for the Aiel —but part of a something.

He was sitting across the table from her, and Elayne had been unable to take her eyes off him since the moment Lanfear had arrived, a little after him, almost late.

Her hair was still a little wet, damp from the bath, falling loosely down her back and dragging over the fabric of her dress. It wasn’t white this time, but something that almost looked like it — a mix between a dull gray and a pale blue that seemed to shine as if the fabric were made of water — and it stopped right on the border between scandalous and provocative, a V-neckline opening and spreading across her chest, exposing her clear, clean skin — a few freckles scattered over her chest and neck — before closing, almost near her navel, caught where the outline of a moon stretched out, standing out in black thread, a constellation dotted against the white waistband where the only fabric was embroidery, the waist perfectly outlined before falling down her body to the floor, the long, tight sleeves covering her slender arms.

Rand had gasped when she arrived, before standing to pull out her chair for her, his hand resting lightly on the back of hers.

It was intimate, she realized, the way they seemed to move.

Familiar, as if they had done it many times already.

She had sat down on his right side, and his hand had found a place on the back of the chair the second she did, moving through her hair, his fingers threading through it for a second or two before returning to the table, raising the glass to his lips; she had leaned into the touch, fleeting as it had been, her body leaning slightly into his before she raised her own wine glass to her lips. Her face twisted into a grimace, and beside her, Rand smiled, low and knowing, as if he had been waiting for the reaction, lifting his own glass and holding it out to her, and Elayne held her breath as she took it — her thin, pale fingers curving around the glass firmly, yet delicately — and tipped it to her lips before making a satisfied little noise.

Rand didn't complain when she stole his cup for herself.

He also didn't make an effort to pull away when she reached forward to steal a grape from his plate and her hair slipped over her shoulder, nearly hitting his face, just, in a movement that almost seemed thoughtless, reached out and brushed her strands back, his fingers brushing the nape of her neck for a second longer than necessary.

Lanfear didn't react, popping the grape on her lips — taking a small bunch full in her hand — as she returned to her seat as if it were something that happened all the time.

As if he had all right to touch her like that.

She muttered something to him, something that made him laugh all at once, the sound booming and echoing loudly through the room as he shook his head in denial and Elayne saw, for the first time, the way she wasn't the only one surprised by the sound.

It was alive.

Carefree and light, completely different from the way he usually laughed this days, his shoulders shaking slightly as his body shook with laughter, as if that weight on his shoulders had, for an instant, disappeared.

It was more transparent in Egwene, perhaps because deep down Elayne had expected to see rejection, resistance, but the way she had stopped, her fingers wrapped around the cup, her lips parted in a barely audible sigh, as if she were seeing a ghost— not one that frightened her, but one that she loved , her eyes moistening for a second before she took a deep breath and brought the glass to her lips as if nothing had happened —it was hard to miss

Mat had gone silent, in the middle of an animated and certainly exaggerated conversation with Nynaeve, his fork suspended in midair. His eyes widened for a second in surprise before a slow smile spread across his face. He didn’t say anything. He just shook his head for a second before continuing to speak, ignoring the way that, next to him, Nynaeve had wrinkled her nose, that way she always did when she was excited and didn’t want to show it.

Nobody said a thing.

But nobody needed to do to it.

It was strange, Elayne thought, how something so small —a laugh;  just a laugh — could mean so much to all of them. As if, somehow, it confirmed that Rand was still there, underneath it all.

That he could still be him.

The ‘him’ Elayne had heard about, during those days she had spent with Egwene and Nynaeve in the White Tower, for what seemed like years ago; the one who had seemed so different from the Rand she had known, and yet the same. The him they had feared they would never see again, buried beneath the armor, the sword, beneath the Dragon.

Even Moiraine watched silently, Elayne saw, her fingers lightly clasped together on the table, her eyes betraying the emotion she was trying to hide, relief shining in them as she cast a knowing look at Lan, sitting beside her.

He looked happy, she choked, when he laughs like that.

Happy and satisfied.

Young.

His words echoed in her ears, taking on yet another meaning.

With her, I want to live.

She hoped, Elayne sighed, that she felt that way too — at least a little —. That she loved him at least half as much as he loved her.

But it didn’t take much to get an answer, either, and she blinked, because the Forsaken wasn’t smiling, reveling in the fact that the Dragon’s attention was irrefutably on her as Elayne had expected her to do. Instead, she was looking at him, her eyes too soft, almost sweet, her face in an expression that bordered on admiration and fondness, as if the sound made her weak, as it did everyone else. And when Rand nudged her arm, saying something, something she couldn't hear, the words lost in the low hum of conversation that was slowly starting up again at the table, her eyes lit up immediately and she laughed, and the sound was so natural, so real , that Elayne felt a lump in her throat.

And the way he looked at her when he heard the sound…

Light…

It was beautiful, Elayne swallowed.

It was beautiful, the way that, when she turned to mutter something to Mat —probably the only one to hear what he had said to her before, sitting between her and Nynaeve — her lips breaking into a loud laugh as he answered her, Rand seemed to melt, his body relaxing completely in the chair, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he stared at her — as he watched her engage in a mini debate with Mat, her hand moving in front of her as she pointed at something at him, talking nonstop — glowing and looking so enchanted,  that Elayne felt she was invading something personal and not watching them at a public dinner.

It was beautiful, and it was impossible not to smile along with him.

For the first time, Elayne said a prayer that he could have that.

So that, somehow, the Wheel, the Creator, everything and everyone and anyone, would allow him to be happy at the end of all this.

That they would allow him to have that.

Her.

She couldn’t hate him for it, she realized, or hate the woman who made him laugh like that, no matter how much she wanted to. She wanted to despise the ease with which Lanfear seemed to fit in there, beside him, as if she had always belonged there. As if she wasn’t who she was. As if she shouldn’t be the enemy. She wanted to detest the way he instinctively leaned in to hear her better, or the way his eyes narrowed in a smile before his lips even did.

But she couldn't.

Because this was the man she had fallen in love with. She had fallen in love with pieces, and now he was there, whole, more whole than Elayne had ever seen him with anyone else, and he was even more beautiful.

Even more passionate.

Adorable, was what Lanfear had called him earlier, as she smiled at him, making his cheeks red — shy — and at the time, Elayne had found it out of place; not at all in keeping with who he was. But, she realized, a smile slowly tugging at her lips, that she was right.

He was adorable.

And she couldn't wish him anything less.

She couldn't wish him to be unhappy, just to fit into the space she had dreamed she could occupy by his side.

Beside her, Aviendha touched her arm, discreetly, and Elayne realized she was staring too obviously at them. She turned slightly, meeting those green eyes so different from her own, but which, somehow, always understood her.

“Are you okay?” Aviendha asked, softly, so only she could hear. Elayne nodded in silent agreement; her hand found his, lacing their fingers together. Aviendha watched her for a second, before turning her eyes to Rand. “You’re jealous.”

Elayne closed her eyes for a moment.

"Yeah." 

“He looks happy.”

Elayne swallowed; she hadn't lied.

"Yeah."

“It hurts you.”

It wasn't a question.

Elayne looked down at their clasped hands, at her fingers—lighter, more delicate—entwined with Aviendha’s—rougher, scarred by battle and the desert sun.

Two different worlds, and yet, there, at that moment, it wasn't.

“I shouldn’t.” Elayne admitted quietly. “I want him to be happy. But…”

“But you wanted it to be with you.” Aviendha added, without judgment.

Elayne closed her eyes for a second, feeling the tears burning behind her eyelids.

“It’s stupid, isn’t it?” Elayne laughed, a low, humorless sound. “I have you. I have Andor. I have so much…and yet, it still hurts.”

“It’s not stupid.” Aviendha squeezed her hand. “You love him. That’s not going to go away just because he can’t love you the same way.” She paused. “Just because he loves someone else.”

Elayne opened her eyes and looked at her. Aviendha wasn’t smiling, but there was a softness in her face that only a few had seen; a softness that, in recent years, had been destined for her.

Elayne asked, before she could stop herself.

“You don’t care?”

Aviendha raised an eyebrow.

“Care about what?”

“With… that. With me still…” She paused. “Still feeling something for him, even if it’s—” She gasped, quick and easy. “Even if it’s impossible.”

For a moment, Aviendha was silent. Then, slowly, she raised her free hand and touched Elayne’s face, her thumb stroking her cheekbone.

“He is not the only man in the world.”

Elayne smiled bitterly.

“It’s not about men. It’s about…” She hesitated, searching for the words. “It’s about being chosen.”

Aviendha studied her face for a long moment before smiling at her, soft and sweet, knowing and unchanged — complete — and respond.

“Maybe you already have been.”

~

Rand told himself as the hall filled and then, as night fell and it slowly emptied until only the two of them remained, that he would give himself one day.

He would give himself one night, before thinking again about what needed to be done.

One night before he have to let her go again.

One night was enough, he forced himself to accept, to give him strength for what was yet to come.

Yet when he opened the door for her and she pushed slowly into his room, turning her face to look at him over her shoulder, a sight against the moonlight that filtered through the tight curtains, her eyes speaking so much more than the lips she kept closed as she turned to face him completely, that part of him that couldn't be satisfied, that wanted to take and take and take , whispered to him to steal much more than one night.

Steal a life.

Steal a name.

Rand was sure she saw it flash in his eyes, but she didn't open those lips, not even when he let his body slam silently against the door, breathing deeply, the wood scraping against his back, breaking through the silk of the shirt he wore.

Her eyes — Light, those eyes — caught fire with the gesture, a silent challenge, locked on his, that dangerous, powerful gaze that made him uneasy, a fire that devoured him from the inside out, glowing in them. Rand took a deep breath, feeling the muscles in his jaw, in his back, tense in response, his fist clenching, blood pumping with such ferocity, such hunger inside him, that he could almost hear the sound, could feel the way that vein in his neck was growing in size.

She moved slowly, one thin, pale finger sliding lightly over her own collarbone, slowly wandering to where the fabric met her skin, that dress that had made him tense all night clinging to her skin.

An invitation.

Rand stopped breathing as she tilted her head to the side, her eyes on him the whole time, just a degree of movement, just enough for her hair to slide over her shoulder, revealing the line of her neck — that damned beautiful, chiseled, sculpted smelly neck that had been within his reach all night and that he wanted to bite.

Her breath caught as he dragged himself out from where he had leaned against the door, and the blood ran a little hotter in his veins at the sound — a low, biting sound that she tried to hold back, but it still came out.

She licked her lips as he took a step forward, a slow, purposeful step, her tongue darting out to wet his lips before disappearing into her mouth again, and Rand resisted the urge to fly at her, forcing himself to take another slow step, content , one inch at a time until his body was flush against hers. 

He pushed her back with his body, slowly, pressing his against hers until she had no choice but to take a step back, then another, and she made another of those sounds he loved as her back met the table in the corner of the room.

Rand took a deep breath as she rose up on her toes, pushing herself up, trying to be at his height, her chest rising and falling too fast for her to pretend to be unmoved; she still couldn’t reach him, her forehead brushing against his jaw the harder she tried, and Rand slowly lowered himself, letting his lips brush her skin unhurriedly. He closed his eyes for a second, breathing in the scent he knew of her skin — too warm , shaky.

She let out a breath, gasping softly as he dropped his head against her, tilting her neck back so he could find the curve of her neck, the tips of his teeth grazing her skin, not biting, not marking, just to feel her gasp, just to feel the way her fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer tightly, impatiently.

Rand forced himself to stay still, breathing deeply, his body a wall, still and hard and unyielding, burning and burning inside, and it was only when she let out a low, clipped moan, a whimper, that he slid one hand to her waist, pulling her hard enough to draw another involuntary noise, another of those sounds that lodged inside him, feeding that part of him that wanted so much more than one night; that wanted every night.

This one was hungrier, and Rand let out a similar one, unable to contain it, his hand closing even tighter on the curve of her hip, his lip clamped tightly between his teeth. She squirmed slightly in his arm, her head lifting, her eyes boring into his, burning and dangerous and hungry, and there was no way, no world, in which he would have been able to contain the low growl that rose from deep within his chest, low and thick, vibrating between their pressed bodies, as she leaned down and bit his jaw, firm and demanding.

The wood of the table creaked beneath his weight as he pulled her up, his hips fitting between her thighs, and she arched against him, an instinctive movement that made the muscles in his abdomen contract as if they had been struck.

Light , he choked.

It was too much.

And it wasn't enough .

His lips found that neck — finally, light, finally — his tongue tracing the pulse that was pounding at the side of her neck, the taste of her skin, the heat that was emanating from her like a furnace making him growl against her skin. She made a sound in response — broken and hoarse — her hands flying up to bury themselves in his hair, holding him tight, her nails scraping against his scalp as if she feared he might pull away.

Rand had no intention of stopping.

Not now.

No, never.

Not when she was shaking like that, when each breath she took came in ragged gasps, as if she were struggling to remember how to fill her lungs. His hand slid down the curve of her waist, up until it found the neckline of her dress, his fingers curling into the fabric.

She craned her neck a little more when he hesitated for a second and Rand smiled, quick and fleeting, and pleased.

The rip was quiet, almost delicate, but the sound echoed in the room like thunder as he pulled the fabric hard.

Lanfear arched her back, her eyes closing for a moment, her lips parting in a husky sigh that he felt against his own skin, one of those feral growls of hers, and Rand blinked, trying not to lose his cool, his eyes roaming over what he had done — to the exposed skin, to the curve of her breasts now only partially hidden by the torn fabric.

Something primal roared inside him.

Light, she was beautiful .

And she was his.

His mouth found her shoulder again, less patient, harder, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh enough to leave a mark, and she moaned, her hips bucking against him, lifting to brush against him where he ached, hard and throbbing, and Rand growled, relinquishing control.

His hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back hard, exposing even more of the skin on that neck; then, almost as quickly as he had, he was down, gripping her thigh — hard enough that he knew that if she had been anyone else, it would have hurt — lifting her up to wrap around his waist.

And then he finally — finally — captured her lips with his.

She gasped, loud, her mouth opening for him without hesitation, and his tongue invaded her mouth, desperate and hungry, savoring every sound she made, every little tremor that raced across her skin, hot and desperate — her nails digging into his back through his shirt, her hips moving against him, made him dizzy — making him tremble against her.

Her taste seeped into his tongue, into his blood, into his very name.

His hand — the only one he had — tightened her thigh around his waist, pulling her even closer, until there was no space, no air, no thought, just the suffocating heat of their bodies pressed together; until he was practically mounted on top of her, pushing her body hard against the table, pressing himself, pushing himself against her.

She arched further into him, her chest crushing against his, and Rand let out a growl, need throbbing, hammering inside him, raw and raw, growing stronger as she moved like this, her hips grinding against his in an erratic, uncontrollable rhythm, pulling him deeper into her even though there was no space between them.

Lanfear lifted her face suddenly, breaking the kiss violently, her eyes blazing like a sharp blade in the pale moonlight, her chest rising and falling, too fast, too unevenly, and Rand almost groaned at the wet trail her own tongue left as she swiped across her lips, biting them hard afterward.

She smiled at him, dangerous, evil, conscious , and then, on purpose, her thighs tightened around him, pulling him in, forcing him deeper between them, and Rand swore under his breath, his jaw clenching like a trap, every muscle vibrating under the tension.

She laughed, a delicious sound that echoed in the heavy silence of the room.

Rand buried his face in her neck in response, biting down hard this time, deep, leaving a mark that made her gasp, her entire body shuddering against his. Her nails dug deeper into his back, cutting through the silk of his shirt, and Rand groaned against her skin, a low, husky, dangerous sound, and tightened his grip on her thigh around his waist, lifting her so that her body arched brutally over the exposed wood.

Deliciously exposed.

He pulled his face back, looking down at her, and then pulled her body up, making her sit on the edge of the table, the wood creaking in protest, and then he pushed her back slightly, forcing her to support herself on her palms, her hair spreading out beside her face and shoulders.

Beautiful.

The most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Rand held her tightly, leaning over her, his hand squeezing the side of her thigh, pinning her in place.

He pressed his lips to hers again.

Slowly this time, slow and purposeful, hot and wet, his mouth moving over hers with calculated slowness, curling into hers, aware of the way she moved for him, restless, until she was moaning again, a low little noise.

Her hand pressed against his hip, a silent plea for him to move.

Instead, he slowly slid his hand down her side, feeling the way her muscles tensed beneath his touch, until he reached her collarbone and pushed firmly, forcing her to lie flat on the table. Lanfear obeyed without resistance — a miracle in itself — her hair fanning out like black silk over the cool wood, her eyes fixed on him, glinting dangerously, wanting , and hot with that something that made his chest ache.

Rand kept his gaze locked on hers as he slid his hand up the curve of her thigh, lifting the fabric of her dress inch by inch, one inch at a time, revealing that pale skin he had once touched with the same reverence he did it then, when he had not known who she was. The dress rose slowly, and Lanfear let out a shudder as the fabric pooled over her hips, exposing her completely to him.

Her chest rose and fell too quickly, and he smiled, leaning over her to slide his mouth along the skin of her exposed thigh; she shivered as his tongue brushed against the inside of her thigh, wet and warm, so close to where she wanted it, but not quite there.

Rand closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath, his fingers pressing tighter into the soft flesh.

“Light…” He whispered, more to himself than to her, his voice hoarse and broken, hungry.

She whispered, gasped. 

“Are going to put that mouth to good use?” 

“I don't know…” He chuckled, raising an eyebrow at her. “Are you going to cry if I do?!”

“Please…” She made a noise at him, snorted, something absurd, almost offended, though he knew that glint in her eyes. “I think we both know who —” 

She gasped, cut the words at the middle when he fell to his knees, pulled her fully to the edge of the table, and slide his lips further, deeper, until she was wet and slick and trembling beneath him. She let out a low, ragged moan, a little cry, arching her back against the table, her hips lifting in a silent, desperate plea, her hands gripping the edges tightly, and Rand laughed, satisfied, husky and hungry against her. 

“You were saying?”

She cursed at him and he laughed again, then buried his face between her thighs, his tongue sliding in firmly and precisely, drawing from her a muffled cry that reverberated through the silent room. Her taste filled his mouth — heady and salty and sweet and absolutely hers — and Rand gave himself over to it as if it were the only thing that mattered, the last thing he would ever do, as if he were about to die , pressing his arm against her abdomen to keep her hips steady as her legs closed around his head, pinning him there —  savage and desperate — using the strength of his body, his arm, to keep her hips steady, still.

She writhed beneath his arm, trying to lift herself, trying to pull him closer, her hips moving against him for more friction, more contact, more of everything, and Rand forced himself to deny her, kept the rhythm steady, steady, slowly increasing the pressure until her moans became muffled sobs, her fingers slipping from the edge of the table to dig into his hair, pulling it tight.

“ Rand —” She gasped, his name coming out a cross between a scream, a growl and a moan, and Rand looked up, gasping, almost losing his rhythm as his eyes took in the way she looked, her chest heaving, her eyes half-lidded and that beautiful mouth open in a silent moan.

…and he saw — Light, he saw — the exact moment she broke.

Her body arched violently, like a bow being pulled to its limit, her legs tightening around him, hips trying to lift, to get away or pull him closer, and he held on tight, his arm stiff as iron, holding her there, trapped, trembling, vulnerable and powerful all at once. She moaned loudly, the sound dissolving into a choked scream as her climax ripped through her without mercy, her body shaking, nails digging into the back of his neck and the side of his head, pulling him closer, burying him deeper between her legs, as if she could melt him into her, as if she couldn’t bear to lose him for even a second.

Rand love it.

Always did.

And he let his tongue move slower, stroking, guiding her through those waves, every spasm, every contraction reverberating directly into his mouth, into the arm that held her waist tightly, and — so deep — into the erection that threatened to rip his pants.

She relaxed, her moans becoming smaller, more fragile, her body falling definitively onto the cold wood of the table, breathing ragged and eyes closed, lips half-open, moist, swollen and Rand kept his head between her legs for a second longer, breathing deeply as he pressed a light kiss over her skin, her taste still lingering on his mouth, his tongue, his skin. 

His hand slowly released its grip on her thigh and slid reverently down the side of her leg.

Then she raised her face to him.

Her eyes opened, heavy, cloudy, but still dangerous, hungry; a command burning in the blue, and Rand obeyed, bracing himself hard on the edge of the table with his right arm and, with his hand still gripping the side of her thigh, he lifted himself up, letting his body drag upward, next to hers, inside her.

To that mouth that took his desperately, a hand dragging itself over his chest, fingers descending over the damp silk of his shirt, descending until they reached that piece of exposed skin between the open buttons.

“Rand…” She called, twisting his name in the way he liked, her fingers resting on his chest, over his pounding heart. Rand couldn’t help himself — he let out a low sound, somewhere between a growl and a groan, as she dug her nails there, scratching lightly, leaving a trail that burned as much as it excited. “These…” She smiled at him before grabbing the fabric and pulling it tight. “ Off."

The buttons flew free, the muffled sound of them bouncing off the silent walls of the room, and Rand bared his teeth in a surprised grunt, his hand tightening on her thigh in response, feeling the skin give beneath the force.

“Light,” he gasped, unable to stop the sound, unwilling to stop.

She pushed the fabric off him quickly, pushing her body forward as she swung her leg around his, and Rand let out a snort as he let go of her thigh and struggled to push her dress up, the fabric at her hips, too much fabric for him to push through with one hand. Rand swore softly, a muffled, hoarse sound, anger and frustration beginning to burn inside him — Light, he had never missed that damn hand so much like at that moment and it was pathetic that he couldn't even lift a damn dress and she was her; it was her and he couldn't even touch her like she deserved, like he wanted to , hold her with both hands and press his hands on her waist, two hands , and just —

Pressed against him as she was, half tucked into his neck, she stilled, slowing her pace slowly.

Her lips brushed his neck, a long, soft kiss that had nothing to do with the fire and desire that burned desperately in them both, and Rand sucked in a breath, blinking as she pulled away from his neck to look him in the eyes.

“You don’t need both.” She whispered to him, low and soft and knowing — somehow Rand felt his breath leave him, she always knew. She let her lips brush over his, slow and soft and deep. “You wouldn’t even need hands.”

He gasped, his heart skipping a beat as she stared at him, her eyes shining at him, a hidden delicacy in the way her fingers slid down his chest, down to gently touch the hand that held her thigh, half tangled in her dress. Rand held his breath as she pulled it to her, pressing her lips to his skin gently.

He pushed her down slowly then, guiding his hand until it was resting on her abdomen, where that moon stood out on the dress, and then, he slowly pushed her to the side, guiding his fingers until he had undone a practically invisible sequence of buttons, the dress opening on the side.

Rand took a deep breath as he touched the warm skin.

But there wasn't enough air anyway as his hand pushed the bundle of fabric up and she pulled the other side, helping him—the pale fabric passing over her head easily, messing up her black hair in the process—and pale white skin flashed before his eyes, the dress falling forgotten onto the table, and he shivered where he stood.

“See?” she whispered to him, pushing up to brush her lips against his again. “Just one,” she murmured, her tongue brushing his lip, an invitation he gave in to so easily, letting her steal his breath, kissing him with a slow, cold hunger that made his toes curl slightly. “You still got just one hand, Rand al’Thor, and I’m so wet right now It would shame a whore.”

Rand groaned, low, the sound forced from him, and her lips enveloped him again, unhurried, a calculated tease; he closed his eyes, leaning into her, seeking more, always more, and she smiled against his mouth, their bodies moving in a barely perceptible brush, too slow, too intimate.

Too perfect.

Lanfear slid her hands around his shoulders, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his more tightly, demanding , and Rand growled softly, grabbing her waist, pushing her thigh forward to support her as he pulled her to the edge of the table, flush against him, and her legs wrapped tightly around him as he pushed her forward for support and lifted her, her chest pressed against his, hot, her bare skin setting his on fire.

She made a satisfied sound as he pulled her off the table, his arm around her waist and his hand on the soft round of her ass, supporting her as he took a step back, reorienting himself— trying to reorient herself as she bit his lips hard, thrusting her tongue into his mouth as if she was about to die , leaving him a little weak in the knees—bumping the back of his knees on a thing or two as he looked for the bed.

The mattress gave way beneath their weight as he found her—upside down, he guessed, not seeing the headboard—and Rand let his body fall with her, burying his face in the warm curve between her neck and shoulder, sucking the skin there with pleasure as he kicked off his shoes. Lanfear arched beneath him, letting out a long, broken breath, her legs still wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper.

“Beautiful.” He murmured, bracing his left forearm beside her head for support, his hand coming down free to push back her hair and then trace the contours of her bare, warm, living skin, tracing them over her jaw, her throat, the lean hollow of her shoulders. He repeated, low and husky, pressing his lips between her chest and then against the hollow of her breasts, his mouth open, heat slicing into her skin as he spoke. “You are beautiful, Mierin. Light, way too beautiful."  

She shifted beneath him as he pressed his lips to the curve of her navel, a peck and nothing more, tugging at his hair to make him look up at her, pulling him away from where he was sucking her skin, biting slowly, and his breath caught again, a heavy knot of desire and tenderness and love throbbing inside him at the way she looked at him—as if it were he who would take breaths and not her.

She saw — of course she did; maybe, Rand thought in a quick, fleeting second of awareness, it had been obvious on his face all along— and she pulled his face back, impatiently, pulling him by the shoulders and then digging her hands into his red hair as she kissed him again, hungry, and Rand gave her everything—he would give her anything she asked for; anything he could give—sinking himself into the kiss.

She shifted slightly beneath him, pushing herself up on the bed so that he was straddling her, between her legs, making room for him to fit perfectly over her, and Rand gasped slightly as she lifted her leg up, yards of soft, sweet-smelling skin exposed before him, curling it up to her chest—her shoes abandoned at some point—and pressed her foot against his chest, pushing him back slightly.

“One hand…” She repeated, those eyes gleaming with challenge, her voice low and husky, laced with need, and Rand didn’t move as she dropped her foot from his chest, spread her lips in that smile that was sensuality and pure sin, and then spread her legs even wider for him. “Go.”

He did.

And she arched, letting out a shameless moan as he slid his hand up her exposed thigh, to the curve of her hip, feeling the soft skin, squeezing the skin tightly—eliciting an involuntary shiver that she couldn't hide in time—and then his hand slid between her thighs, sure, firm, and decided. She let out a shaky breath, her hips immediately arching, seeking more, asking for more—and Rand gave it; one, then two—his fingers sinking into her hard.

Deep , as she liked.

She gasped as he repeated the motion, again and again, lifting her hips even higher, elevating them over the bed the harder he worked inside her, fingers thrusting and then pulling — supporting his own weight with his other arm, half-bent over her as he was — and she vibrated around him, squeezing him tightly, as his thumb found her clit hard.

It was impossible to contain the growl.

The words .

“I’m going to fill you up,” He promised, and she let out a husky moan, her head lolling to the side, her neck exposed. Rand leaned down to lick the skin there, tasting her, and she clenched around him a little tighter as his fingers went in—three now—and out, in and out until he was knuckle-deep inside her and Rand couldn’t stop talking as her hips moved wildly against his hand. “I’m going to fill you up and then I’m going to fuck you and cum so deep inside you...”

“Rand… fuck — ” She gasped, and he smiled, the curse hitting that deep part of him that always enjoyed making her scream.  

She had such a dirty mouth when she was horny, when she wanted to cum , and Rand had never thought that hearing a woman swear would make him nearly come in his pants until that first night in Cairhien, when he had her pressed against the wall, two fingers inside her—and, after, he fucked her against the hard mattress of an inn and it was glorious —and she bit him hard, his name getting lost in a mountain of curses and he almost came right then and there.

“Fuck, oh shit fucking bloody ashes —” She spread her legs wider, digging her heels into the bed to lift herself up closer to him, and it's dirty and he loves it, and as arousal seeps into his finger, spilling over her, it takes an effort not to cum at the sight of her as he fucks her one last time, her head thrown back as she comes, a loud moan on her lips before the sound disappear , her lips open even without sound.

He pulled his fingers out of her with a wet squelch that made his cock throb.

His voice sounded hoarse —raw— when he spoke.

“One .”

Her eyes flew to him, burning, the blue dissolving into black, and Rand blinked, once, before his hands found the waistband of his pants fast and desperate, the order burning in her eyes. He was in the middle of undoing the buttons, half-seated on his knees between her legs, when she pushed herself up and s he flew on the mattress, planting both hands on his chest and pushing him down hard.

Rand hit the mattress with a surprised grunt.

“Light—” He gasped, his hand coming up to grip her hip, his fingers digging into the flesh hard.

She blinked up at him, those dangerous hands coming down firmly on his bare chest. Rand held his breath as her hand stopped a few inches to the left of his heart, where he now sported a new scar.

Where he had tried to kill himself for her.

Lanfear pushed back—rubbing herself in a deliciously torturous way over the hardness that made his pants stretch up as she did so—curving her body over him and arching herself in a way that put that deliciously round ass right before his eyes, and Rand made a pained noise that drew a giggle from her.

“This is mine.” She purred at him, her eyes locked on his as she moved, tracing the scar with her tongue. Rand closed his eyes, trying to think, breathe ; it didn't satisfy her, and she squeezed his hip with one hand, a silent signal for him to open his eyes. He took a deep breath before doing so, opening his eyes to her; she parted her lips in that smile— the one that made him catch fire— and Rand let out a pathetic whimper as she moved the rest of the way over the edge, placing her mouth over his heart. “ That." She scraped her teeth over the skin. “It’s mine."

It was.

Light, stars and damned darkness, everything  in him was hers.

She pushed herself back a little further, dragging herself further over him, and Rand cursed, loud and choked, as she ran her hand down his abdomen—palm open—and let it rest right on the hard, slightly wet curve of his cock, before removing her hand and tracing it with her mouth.

“That’s mine too,” she said, a smug whisper of amusement and mischief muffled against the fabric of his pants; Rand fell back onto the bed, rubbing his hand over his eyes as her fingers slowly began to undo the buttons. 

He lifted his hips as she tapped her fingers against the bone of his pelvis, ordering him to do so, to let her pull the fabric off, settling back on the bed, legs spread, and then he gasped—loudly—as she cupped the base of his erection in her hands, squeezing gently between her palms, her eyes on his.

“You’re all mine, Rand a’l Thor.” She whispered, breathing heavily on the tip of him, before taking the head of his cock into her mouth and let it go with a sweet sound. “You’ll always be all mine.”

Rand groaned in appreciation, in affirmation, his hand flying up to grip the sheet tightly as she ran her tongue along the underside of his cock, licking the prominent veins from bottom to top, her lips moving in wet shadows of kisses, her lips settling around the shaft and moving upward.

“Lanf—” His words were cut off by a sharp intake of breath as she leaned down, slowly licking a path along his length, savoring the way his entire body trembled beneath her touch. “Oh, shit — Light’s mercy .”

She laughed, clicking her tongue, licking at the drop of fluid that had collected at his tip, letting out a hum of satisfaction as she wrapped her lips around him, her tongue tracing the pulsing vein along his shaft in a slow, languid motion, her eyes gleaming at him, that damn hair falling around her shoulder, grazing his leg.

Rand blinked, trying to think.

Really trying, but the  heat of her mouth enveloped his cock with perfect pressure, her tongue tracing every inch as if to memorize it, and all he could think about was ‘ do not cum’, moaning, hoarse and weak, his fingers digging into the sheets, trying not to grab her hair like a starving animal.

But Light , it was hard.

She smiled around him, feeling the tension in his muscles, and then she moved lower, slowly, until his tip was against the back of her throat and Rand arched his back, an almost desperate sound escaping his lips as she swallowed around him, squeezing him in a way that made his vision blur, a point of light appearing in his eyes.

Rand's stomach muscles clenched, sweat trickling down his temples as he fought not to explode right then and there.

Not yet.

He wanted to be inside her when it happened. He wanted to see her lose control again, he wanted to hear his name coming out of her mouth like a prayer and a curse at the same time.

He wanted to cum inside her and he wanted to fuck the hell out of her before he did.

With an effort that was—positively—superhuman—and might very well be the greatest battle of his life—he pulled his hips back, escaping her mouth with a wet pop that made him gasp, losing himself in the way she looked up at him, her lips swollen and shiny, her chin wet and that damn look of someone who knew exactly what she had done burning over him.

He was still trying to blink, trying to think, when she pushed herself up and straddled him in one swift, sure motion, her knees sinking into the mattress beside his hips, the warm, firm weight of her body fitting over his.

Her black hair slid forward, forming a curtain that enveloped them both, that beautiful face towering over his, and Rand leaned up without hesitation, his lips finding hers hard, gripping her tightly around the waist as she moved, slow and merciless, undulating her hips against his; Rand moaned again, the sound caught in his throat, as he let his head fall back, keeping his weight where he sat, his head banging against the wall—when did he got that close to the wall?!—his eyes closing in a futile effort to contain himself.

There was no way to contain anything.

Not when her heat enveloped him entirely, burning, dragging him down, inside, pulling out whatever control he thought he had and leaving him with hunger and desperate, and when she lifted herself slightly, just enough to adjust the angle and then sit on him, the fit perfect and brutal, Rand let out a broken grunt, his body arching instinctively in response.

Lanfear closed her eyes for a second, her lips parted, her breathing uneven, her forehead pressed against his.

Then she opened her eyes to him, meeting his, her mouth landing close to his and she began to move.

Slow, deep, steady.

A torture.

Rand he couldn't help himself—he held her even tighter, his fingers digging into the warm flesh of her waist, his hips rising to meet her halfway, without choice, without defense, with strength and depth.

“You can give youserlf to the world in the light all you want.” She whispered to him, and Rand tilted his head back, his throat exposed, his breath hitching at the satisfied growl she let out, leaning down and biting his neck and shoulder hard enough to draw a low moan from him, and then she kissed him there, licking and sucking the skin; marking it. “But in the dark, Rand al’Thor…you’re mine.”

Rand nodded with a growl, slid his hand down her back—smooth and contoured, slightly arched—tracing a bead of sweat with his fingers, and she gasped, speeding up, riding him harder, more urgently, and he buried his face in her neck, inhaling her scent, losing himself in it.

Getting lost in her.

He shivered, bringing his face back to hers, his hand leaving her back to slide sideways, all over that pale white, perfect skin, and Lanfear threw her head back and moaned, loud and wet, as his hand closed over one of those small, perfect breasts, gasping out his name and—

“Light, I love—” He gasped, groaning loudly, and she shivered and moaned, her hips grinding harder against his, frantically desperate, her eyes boring into his—that bright, devastating look that seemed to want to rip him to the bone, bright and burning and so transparent in its love that it made him gasp— and Rand didn’t take his eyes off hers.

He couldn't.

“Love you.” He growled, because he had almost had the words and she had practically glowed as he started to say them and he wanted to say them and she cried out a moan and arched her back, her hands finding his knees to support herself as she bucked, opening herself completely to his eyes, her breasts bouncing with the speed at which she thrust against him and Rand gasped, his legs spreading wider to receive her, to hold her. “Fuck, love you .”

Rand wondered briefly if his hand would leave a mark on her slim waist with the force he was squeezing her, but then she let out a broken moan, her legs tightening around him, her muscles trembling, and Rand pulled her closer, to his chest, deeper, holding her as if his life depended on it, his hand gripping that beautiful head of hair tightly—letting her back hit the headboard again, supporting him—to press his mouth to hers.

She writhed in his lap, trembling as he pressed his lips to hers, kissing her, biting her, his lips roaming from her mouth to her chin, to her neck, back to her lips, everywhere and it was his name— Rand — gasping and desperate on her lips, and when he pulled away and opened his lips, when he let his voice out, she trembled a little more and he loved.

“I’m going to cum in you.” He murmured, and it wasn’t a request, but she nodded in agreement anyway, straining against the iron grip he had on her hair. “I’m going to cum in you and then you’re going to sleep on my chest and spread those legs for me when I wake up in the middle of the night to fuck you again, won’t you?!” She gasped out a reply, a loud, wet ‘yes,’ and he laughed. “Just like old times. Just like Selene. ”

She laughed, a familiar husky sound, naughty and shameless, remembering what she had done, what they had done, when she was someone else, and made one of those sinful little noises in his mouth, something that was a mix of his name and something else, and Rand found himself pulling her hair harder.

“Just like those little dreams of ours, in the Aiel Waste, when I wanted to fuck you all day long — every day." He marked the words with a higher, harder thrust of his hips and she whinpered. "And I couldn't wait to go to sleep so I could dream and bury myself inside you — saying that I shouldn't, knowing that I would — and you let me, night after night.” He growled, and she trembled, her movements faltering, but they didn't stop — even when she began to tremble above him — nails running down his neck, his shoulder, his arms, hard. “I'm going to fuck you, Mierin — me — and I will love you, and you will let me.” He gasped along with her this time, as she began to shake harder, her hands gripping his shoulders like anchors, her hair plastered to her damp skin, and that sinful pussy clenching around him with desperation, but his voice was still steady enough for her to understand. “And the next time he talks to you and tell you've got nothing, you’re going to tell him that you have me!"

“Fucking — oh shit.” She gasped, the words trembling. “Bloody fuck —.” Cried, squeezing him tighter, desperate, her body taut as a rope as she came, a sequence of moans mixed with curses and his name and much more. “I’ll let you.” She shook, her voice so choked it might have been a actual cry. “I will — fuck, I will — swear — Rand —.” She growled, half cried, half choked his name and Rand didn't try to contain the tortured groan that tore from his chest, wrapping his arm tightly around her, his hand gripping her ass tightly as he moved his hips upward as best he could. “You, only you —” She choked, crying and pulled back slightly, stretching for his eyes, and Rand buried his face in her chest, taking one of those small breasts— made for him, perfectly made for him, fitting perfectly in his mouth — into his mouth hard, desperately, licking her as she trembled above him, bobbing up and down on his cock with eagerness.“You, I'm gonna let everything."

Rand gasped, his mouth moving, releasing her breast with a wet pop, dragging himself along her skin until he was buried in her neck again, pressing her against his chest as if he wanted to bury her inside him. She brushed her lips against his ear, her mouth open in a moan that reverberated inside him, and Rand gasped as she repeated it, over and over, whimpering for him—only for him—like one of those creatures the legends used to tell of, luring men into the darkness of the sea.

“Do you want to hear me say it, cariad ?! That you fuck me so good — so fucking good — that I can't forget?! That you’re going to leave me so fucked and sore I’ll need Saidar so I can walk tomorrow? Force me to explain to your friends, to your enemies, what you did to me?! How you fucked me limp?” She purred at him, low, lustful, before she tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled hard. “Are you trying to break it? Trying to break the Pattern fucking me like that?!” 

Rand gasped. It was loud, his hips slamming into her, panting heavily, and she laughed softly at him. The sound was a squeal as he jerked forward, his body thrusting forward with speed, his legs lifting beneath him, still holding her in his lap. 

“Ahhh… there’s my Dragon.” She laughed, her eyes flashing, and then she whispered, panting, sitting on him harder, and Rand pushed himself into her hard, his hand gripping her ass tightly, holding her as he thrust into her, again and again. “Got tired of letting me play?” She purred at him, gripping his hair so tightly it hurt when he fucked himself into her a little harder, pushing her body up, half-curled on the bed until, somehow, she was pressed against the wall, her body trapped between him and the wall. "— fuck.”

She gasped in surprise and satisfaction when her back hit the wall with a louder, violent, muffled thud, her hands still digging into his hair, pulling hard. He didn’t apologize — knew she didn’t want any of that, wet as a damn river for him — gripping her ass so tightly  that he thought for a second that his fingerprints would leave a mark on her skin, burying himself in her hard, rough.

“Going to cum inside me, right?” She asked, and it was a drawn-out tease, but he knew the request in the words, in the way she moaned for him, getting lost and tangled in the words themselves, her voice coming out choked and shaky, one hand letting his hair, moving to tangled in his ass, gripping him tightly, pushing him further to her. “Fill me up and send me back to him all fucked and full —” She choked. “Fuck, so full.”

Rand lost his rhythm for a second.

“I love this, love this —" She gasped. "Light, so full… ” She repeated, panting against his mouth, her forehead pressed to his, eyes flashing, shining with lust and something darker; something black and uncontrolled. “You want to leave a piece of yourself inside me, don't you?! I've known for a while now." She whispered the words to him, like a spell. "Mark me so deep that not even time can erase it.” Rand gasped, something mixed, and she laughed against him, her lips spreading into a full smile; like a damned demon, smiling at him, seduction and sensuality and sin all mixed together, and Rand shivered as she pressed her lips to his, whispering the words. "It's okay, love, I'll let you."

The words stole his breath, hitting him like a sledgehammer, straight to the heart. Dreams, he choked, racing through his mind, running down his spine.

A life together.

It gave a straight yank to his cock and Rand gasped, feeling his legs go weak.

“Fuck — holy shit Lanfear, you're —” Rand groaned, thrusting into her with a brutality that had her body slamming against the wall again, his hips pounding in a wild, desperate and out of control, out of rhythm, flesh on flesh filling the silence of the room with a pornographic sound and she accepts, moaning contentedly. Satisfied. "Light,” He growled, gasping, his breath coming in ragged gasps and held her face, forced her to look at him, his jaw clenched, sweating as if he were fighting in an arena. “You’re a plague.”

“I'm yours.” She whispered, the smile plastered on her lips as he fucked her hard again, each thrust eliciting another scream, another shudder, another moan. “Your ruin. Your Chosen. The shadow in your heart. ” She pressed her head on his shoulder again, her mouth to his ear again, a whisper. “I'm your reward.”

Rand groaned loudly, a desperate succession of words that he didn't even hear before they came out between his lips, his hand sliding from her hips to her back, his mouth pressing to the curve of her neck, biting, marking.

“In me.” She hissed, commanded, her body shaking, her skin clammy, sticking against his, words shattering as she tremble. “Make the world stop, my lord, bend the Pattern to you will. ”

Rand obeyed. Her hair muffled the loud growl he let out as he spilled himself inside her, her body twitching, her hips shaking as he buried himself deep, deep until there was no more space between them. She arched against him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her nails digging into his back, his name on her lips like a dirty prayer as she came again.

Rand didn't care if she heard it, didn't care about anything other than the way she felt, the way she shivered when he parted his lips and kissed the curve of her shoulder, holding her as she slowly stopped shaking, her body tangled with his, sweaty and hot, her legs opening around him slightly, her face hidden in the crook of his neck and shoulder, her breathing heavy and hot as he held her, slowly pulling her from where he had pushed her against the wall and settling on the bed again, holding her on his lap.

Rand held her tighter as she took a deep, sighing breath, her chest rising and falling hard, her heart racing enough that he thought if hers hadn't been so loud as his, thumping against her chest, she would have heard it.

“I love you.” She murmured, low and husky against his shoulder, and Rand rested his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes, his fingers tracing slow, aimless circles over the bare skin of her back, up and down the straight line of her spine, as she took a deep breath, over and over, and said it again and again— desperate for him to believe her; afraid he wouldn’t. “IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou, Ilove — I swear I do, Rand , I love you, I do —”

"I know .” He murmured, brushing her sweat-damp hair from her shoulder, touching her, pulling her away from the hiding place of his shoulders to look into her eyes. “I know .” He whispered, pressing his lips against hers slowly, softly. “I believe in you, love.” He murmured, reaching out to brush her hair away from her face, the strands wet; her eyes were almost wet and Rand smiled when he saw them. “I believe in you.”

She let out a small sob, more relief than pain, and closed her eyes tightly as he kissed her again, calm, unhurried. He held her around the waist as she wrapped her arms around his neck again, holding him close.

“You’re shaking.” She murmured after a while, her voice hoarse and sleepy.

He laughed, a husky, breathless sound, because of course he was, and she lifted her face enough to look at him, to see what he was laughing at, her eyes half-lidded, her lashes shadowing that damned satisfied expression he knew so well. Her mouth was swollen and red from his biting, and he couldn’t resist—he pulled her closer and licked her bottom lip, slowly, just to hear her catch her breath.

She stole a kiss from him in return, her mouth following his as he pulled away, something slow and heavy, her tongue brushing his slowly, doubling the tease and taking it much higher, and Rand laughed again.

“Can’t you let me win once?!” he whispered, his lips stretching into a knowing smile. “For the sake of my ego?”

“Oh, your ego is fine." She laughed, that sassy expression on her face, and Rand jerked his head back as she moved to brush his hair out of his face, letting her style it however she wanted. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction for a second at how they were—quick and fleeting—and Rand raised an eyebrow at her, grateful for the narrow window that let the moonlight—now quite full—enter the room and make her perfectly visible to him. She bit her lower lip, staring at him, before whispering the answer to his unspoken question. “I like messing you up.”

He blinked at her, slowly.

“I like it when you mess me up.” His voice sounded softer than he intended when he spoke. “Inside and out.”

Her eyes softened, becoming soft, and Rand moved slowly, placing a hand on the bed to turn their bodies onto the mattress, taking her with him. She settled into his arms, one leg coming up to fit over his, tucked between hers, and Rand took a deep breath, noting the way the moonlight made her skin look paler.

He traced the curve of her body with his fingertip, pride and satisfaction flooding his chest as her skin prickled at his touch, the thin, fine hairs standing up as he did so.

“I miss you.” He murmured finally, when the silence had settled between them, comfortable and heavy, intimate, but her eyes were still open and locked on his. “I miss waking up with you.”

Lanfear was silent for a moment, her fingers pausing on his chest before beginning a light trace, as if she were writing secrets on his skin.

Rand didn't realize until she spoke that she was trying to get the courage to speak.

“I miss your fingers in my hair.” She murmured, finally, too quietly, too vulnerable, her voice hoarse as if she were afraid to say the words. “The way you kissed my shoulder before you left.” She blinked, slowly, as if remembering; she whispered, like a secret. “Every morning.”

Rand held her a little tighter, pulling her against his chest until she was pressed against him, her ear against the loud thump of his heart, and tried to pretend that her words hadn't made his chest burn; that the lump in his throat wasn't the result of a sudden urge to cry.

“Stay.” He murmured to her, aware that she heard him.

The said and the unsaid.

Stay with me one more day.

Let me steal one more day.

Let me steal one more night.

She didn't respond for a while, her hand trailing down his back in a silent caress. His eyes were nearly closed, sleep stealing him from her, when she spoke, a low whisper against his jaw where she pressed her lips in a kiss.

“Until you wake up.”

Rand let his eyes close.

It's enough .

He pressed his lips against her hair, his hand finding the spot soon after in a familiar caress; she melted into his arms a little more.

That's enough for now.

To give him the strength to do the rest.

To continue.

“Thank you. ” He murmured, his chest beginning to rise more slowly. “For coming for me.” He inhaled, taking her scent into his nostrils with force, the scent lulling him. “For not letting her take me. Cage me.”

He blinked, slowly.

“And for not letting me die.”

“…again, skin you.” She murmured, a low, mumbling sound of jumbled words, her hand moving a little, almost limply, down his back. The sound made him smile—she was much less threatening when she was practically asleep.

Was asleep, he realized when she didn't say anything else.

“Okay.” He muttered anyway, even though she couldn’t hear. “I won’t do that again.” He blinked, slowly. “Promise.”

He wouldn’t. 

It were enough. 

This night, a night stolen from time, were enough for him to decide. Watch her among those he loved; see her smile and laugh and teach and talk and look at him in that way she did while he was speaking; accompany her through the dining room to his room — they room, even if only for a night —, his hand wrapped around hers, indifferent to who was watching them... 

It were enough to make him want more.

He was going to live, Rand decided.

He was going to live, so he could live.

He was going to keep that promise.

A cabin in the woods.

Two friends at an inn table

He was going to steal a life.

Steal a life with her.

And in that life, he promised to himself, he will kiss her shoulder, every morning.

Rand closed his eyes, pulling the blanket over their bodies, letting sleep take him, drawing him in slowly.

Closed his eyes and slept.

And It wasn't until he woke up — the sun streaming through the open curtains hitting her face, making her groan softly and torn to snuggle against his chest —, when he bent over her body to do so, that Rand realized that for the first time, she had slept on the right side of the bed.

Chapter Text

Saidin was clean.

Saidin was clean, and for the first time since this long battle had begun, Rand was actually happy and satisfied with something he had done.

It had been difficult, dangerous and exhausting, but it was worth it.

He knew it would be it on top of a mountain, bracing himself, breathing and trying to make that beast inside him remain dormant for as long as possible, hours fighting against the cold and the shadow.

Fighting against the defeat he had suffered in Arad Doman; against the weight of abandoning a country to hunger, the frustration that burned in his mind, in what was left of his morale.

He knew it would be worth it at the top of Dragonmount, when doubt threatened to rise in his chest again, and for the first time, he found an answer to that question. To that question that he had been asking himself for years, running through his mind every time he lost a battle, and that he had finally shouted to the heavens.

What was the point of all this fighting, after all, if everyone is doomed to die and repeat things over and over again? Why did he fight, if with every victory, more defeats followed. Why did he fight, if it seemed like nothing changed? If he could do nothing to change; nothing different, the world still as broken and flawed and treacherous as when he was just a shepherd.

The answer had been simple, coming from deep within his chest, and Rand understand. 

He had understood exactly what Lews wanted him to understand with the words.

“So we can see them again, have a chance to change things.”

He had changed something, Rand realized, as the rain fell on the top of that hill, making his clothes and hair visible soaked.

Even though sometimes it was easy to just think about him, what he — Rand — had lived, suffered, and forgotten where that soul of his came from — what that other part of him, that other person who was also him, had lived and failed to do — and that he was a man with defeats that escaped time, defeats that he carried in his soul and spirit.

It was easy — or perhaps not easy, but the result of a long time of assuring him that he would do so — to stay in the present and forget the past. It was easy to think about the near and forget the far; to not notice the advances, the small victories, because he thought of them based on what was moving him in the present and consequently, not to notice how great his achievements were.

Something had changed, he had held his breath at the realization.

Had changed her.

Not in its entirety. Not in her person — as he had discovered over the lasts years that she had abstained from him, even from his dreams, that he didn’t want to. Loved her exactly the way she was: dangerous and intelligent and ambitious and passionate. Fall in love with her being just like that. — , not in who she was, but had changed one of the main parts; one of the driving factors that had made her become what she was.

Held her hand and turned any say that she had nothing but darkness into a lie.

He had held her hand, anchored her, and though he hadn't managed to drag her back into the light for good, it was what she needed, it was enough — everything she had needed Lews to do for her that he hadn’t — and he had managed to drag her back into his arms; to his side. He hadn’t even really been trying. To make her leave the darkness. All he had been trying to do was love her, be with her, and in the meantime he had achieved both, in a way he had never thought he would be allowed to.

Gave her something to respond with, should that shadow ever come whispering to her that she had nothing. Should it try to tighten chains around her. Gave her a love that was real and that it wasn’t made of shadows or power or jealous and possessiveness, but real.

Saved her, Lews had whispered to him.

This time, he had saved her.

He had loved her more than he had and saved Mierin.

Something so small , Rand had thought as the rain poured down on him.

Something so easy — not in logistics, but in feeling — so natural to him.

Love her.

All she had needed was for him to love her.

Choose her.

Fight for her.

And he had done it, he had fought to do it and it was worth it. It would be worth it, because even if he died, even if he couldn't change things and in the end everything ended the same, for a moment, for a turn, a wheel in the time, he would have saved her.

And she was worth loving, in and of herself.

For Rand.

For being her and being him, and being them.

But it had also been worth loving her for the world, for as he let Saidin flow from him to cleanse what had been tainted, there were no Forsaken trying to stop him, and he knew— he   knew , even without asking — that if it weren't for her, there would be.

And maybe it wasn't enough to stop him and nothing would change, but here, on this wheel of time, it was all because he had cleaned Saidin , and Lanfear, Daugther of the Night, had ensured, in more ways than one, that he was safe to do so and not surrounded by enemies, and if he died, if he died tomorrow and nothing changed, for a moment, for an instant , both of their names were immortalized together in one feat.

And if he lived — and he had decided he would — when the legends of the Dragon Reborn's deeds were woven and spread across the world and through time, there would be a part of them that sang of her.

About them.

And when they did, they would say that it had been worth the Dragon Reborn's fighting for the love of a Forsaken— fighting to love a Forsaken — for as long as the world was forever a naturally dangerous place, no man would ever again need to worry about killing those he loved, dominated by something he had no way of controlling, and it had been both their doing.

It had been worth it, Rand blinked, for when he returned to his room in Tear, he had found familiar eyes — eyes he loved — waiting for him, and he was no longer a boy — far from it — but a father's embrace still had the same effect, and it had been pride that had shone in his eyes when he had told him what he had done — what he had accomplished — and it had been tears that he had shed on his father's shoulder.

And yet it was pride he saw in Tam al’Thor’s eyes as he stepped back to let him look at him properly, biting the inside of his cheek in what Rand knew was an attempt not to cry.

Parents didn't like to appear weak to their children.

Not even when the children were already of the world.

He kept his eyes on him for a long time, silently assessing everything from the curve of his shoulders to the way his feet splayed out on the ground in a stance of steadiness and battle readiness that had become natural to him; from the hair that almost reached his shoulders now, to the hand he no longer possessed. There was no glory in his eyes, no reverence; nor the fear that people now carried when they saw him; fearing power and fearing him.

Just a father's gaze, and Rand fought back the tears that threatened to fall again as he stood before him, letting him assess him.

He took a deep breath before speaking, as if to make sure he wouldn't sound shaky, that his son wouldn't see him cry.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured, and the words were filled with warmth and not the words Rand had expected him to say at first, but his chest had swelled with warmth with each one. “I’m proud of my boy.”

Rand clenched his jaw tightly, trying not to cry.

“I don’t care what the world says you are… I don’t care if you are what it says you are.” Tam continued, his voice low and steady, and Rand felt the lump in his throat grow. “To me, you’ll always be the boy I saw running through the fields after sheep, stubbornly not wearing his boots when the mud was up to his ankles…” A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, and Rand almost laughed, remembering it too. “Stubborn as a mule.”

Tam shook his head, laughing.

“You may be…” Tam hesitated, but only for a second, looking directly into his eyes, seeing too much — eyes that carried the weight of so many lives, eyes that were tired and wounded, but still his own. “…you may be the Dragon, you may be the man who cleaned Saidin… but to me, you will always be my son. And I will always be proud of you.”

Rand didn't pretend not to feel the weight of the words as he stepped forward and hugged his father tightly, choking back a sob and hiding his face in his father's shoulder as he held him even tighter, strong and secure, as he always had been.

“But your old daddy is getting old, kid.” He laughed after a while, patting him on the back. “Save your strength a bit or you’ll break my poor ribs.”

Rand laughed, though his cheeks were slightly red, and he took a step back. He wanted to stay here, in this comfort, like a familiar blanket being thrown over his body, but the world still went on, time still spinning, and Rand frowned in confusion.

“How did you get here?”

His father winked at him, shoving his hands into his pants pockets.

“This woman found me. Gray hair, very dark eyes.” He paused, remembering the name. “Cadsuane.” Rand made a disgusted noise that might have been a groan or a growl, and across from him, Tam frowned. “Not a friend, I assume?”

Rand rubbed his forehead lightly, sitting back down on the bed.

“Not an enemy either.”

Cadsuane Melaidhrin was… irritating.

Too brash, hyperaware of her own worth and abilities, and arrogant enough to talk to him the way she did. Arrogant. But clever. Clever enough to try to mold him, manipulate him until he behaved as she wanted; until he was just another asset to the White Tower, whom she supposedly served — yet she entangled herself far beyond what Egwene Sedai, the Amyrlin Seat, commanded.

Cadsuane Melaidhrin was, for many times, his frustration, necessary.

Old enough for her words to be heard. For her opinion to be valued — and she had an opinion about everything —and sincere enough to let him know that, despite the methods she used that had made him doubt in their first interactions, she aimed to prepare him for what he needed to do. Influential enough for her presence, her support , to be indispensable.

“Something in between.”

Rand murmured and Tam settled into a chair in the corner of the room, taking his words for what they were, an answer in themselves, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at him slowly, that same patient calm with which he had taught him to herd sheep; to tell time with the sun and understand the changing seasons.

“She told me I needed to come,” he murmured finally, with a slight shrug. “She seemed to think you… would need it.” He paused. “Me.”

Rand let out a weak, mirthless laugh, running a hand across his forehead.

“Yeah, maybe I do.”

His father sat up a little straighter in his chair, a thread of worry crossing his eyes.

"Are you okay?"

Rand looked up. 

There was no lying.

Didn’t  want to lie.

Still, the words slurred through his lips, almost refusing to come out.

“I don’t know if I know what that is anymore, Dad.”

Tam smiled, one of those small, one-sided smiles that seemed to say more than any words.

“Isn’t being okay simpler than surviving all this?” He gestured at the air around them, indicating the world and everything that came with it. “You’re doing a good job, Rand.” He stood up, pressing a hand on his shoulder in silent comfort. “You’re doing well.”

Rand let out a sigh.

He let the words he really wanted to say slip out.

“Sometimes being okay is the hardest thing of all.” He blinked, once, twice. He confessed. “Sometimes I think I can’t breathe , Dad. Like—” He took a deep breath. “Like there’s a stone in my throat all the time, and I can’t get it out.” He brought his hand up to his face, his eyes lingering on his fingers as he pulled it away. His father’s eyes burned over his hand, before drifting to the stump where the other should have been. “I feel like… like I’ve lost a part of me. Not my hand, not only my hand… but something inside me.” His voice cracked, and he squeezed his eyes shut as if he could contain what was seething behind them. “An important part.”

Tam nodded slowly.

“And you did.” The words were spoken sincerely, firmly, and Rand looked up at him in surprise. “You lost things that will never come back. People… Dreams. Hopes. Parts of who you were… and even parts of what you could do.”

Rand let out a mirthless laugh, shaking his head.

“Is this supposed to cheer me up?”

Tam leaned forward a little further, his gaze fixed and intense.

“No.” He said simply. “This is for you to accept.”

Rand didn’t move, his father’s words hammering that big, too-deep nail into his heart. Driving the nail deeper. His father kept going anyway; even though he could see the way he flinched slightly when he failed again.

“You lost, yes. You failed, yes; and you will fail again, son. You cannot win every battle you fight. And you have suffered. You have suffered more than any man should suffer. More than you could ever deserve. But you are still here.” He took a deep breath. “You are still breathing. And while you are, Rand, while you have that breath… you can still choose who you want to be. You can still create other parts of yourself.” He smiled at him, warm and sincere, and for a moment Rand was a boy again, sitting around a campfire as his father pointed to the stars. “Parts as important as the ones you have lost.”

Rand closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words sink into his ears, his mind.

The weight of his father’s hand was a comforting warmth on his shoulder. And Rand was tired, and aching, his body feeling the full toll of what he had done, of how much it had taken to effectively cleanse Saidin, but his mind was clear for the first time in a long time, and he smiled as he opened his eyes to his father and spoke.

“There is an important part of me that I would like — that I want you to know.”

Rand took a deep breath, strangely anxious, anticipation beginning to churn in his chest. His father arched an eyebrow at him, confused, curious at the tone his voice had taken on—it seemed, Rand had discovered after some time with people really seeing them together, that he had a specific way of talking about her; something sweet and soft that Mat had called ‘pathetically velvety’—and Rand couldn’t help but smile.

That eyebrow would certainly rise a little higher, he snorted.

He stood slowly, rising from the bed, the red robe sliding off his shoulders as he moved. He had felt her come a little earlier. It had been three weeks since he had last seen her, when he had woken with her curled against his chest, her blue eyes opening to him as she had tired of fighting the sunlight streaming through the open curtains; she had stayed, as she had said she would, and when Rand had come down to breakfast, several minutes later than he should have, his hair was wet and there was a fresh tooth mark on his neck that no robe was high enough to cover, but she had said goodbye with a soft kiss on his lips and Rand had breathed easy for the rest of the day.

It had taken three weeks to prepare — for Nynaeve to be ready to use what Lanfear had taught her, and for Rand to be sure the madness wouldn’t overtake him again when he touched Saidin — for what they would do in Shadar Logoth, and Rand hadn’t seen her once after that.

His heart leapt in his chest at the prospect of doing it now, of seeing that familiar, proud gleam in her eyes, and he placed his hand firmly on the door latch, opening it without hesitation.

Behind him, his father's footsteps followed, slow but steady.

She was waiting for him on the highest tower of the Stone of Tear , her hair flowing loosely in the wind, her white dress billowing around her, and she turned to him the second his footsteps echoed through the hall. If her presence behind him surprised her, she didn’t let on, her eyes roaming over him as calmly and diligently as they would if he were alone.

“Father…” He began, and her eyes flickered, widening slightly for a second before she straightened her body and straightened her spine. “This is Lanfear.”

He heard the way the man's breathing caught for a second.

He heard the air rush out of his father’s lungs, a small sound, as if he had been punched in the face by an invisible force. He didn’t need to look back to know the expression he would find: that quiet tension, the cautious assessment of a man who knew that not every threat made noise, but that some not only made a lot of noise, but even more damage.

Rand continued on anyway, keeping his eyes fixed on her.

“My…” He paused, considering what to say. He should have thought of that part before, Rand realized, muttering to himself. He didn’t know exactly how to introduce her; she was… just her. Girlfriend seemed… little. In front of him, her lips began to lift in a small smile, realizing exactly why he had stopped talking and enjoying the expression that certainly marked his face. She-devil. Rand let his lips spread into a smile bigger than hers and decided. “Well, eventually, my wife .”

“Oh, am I, now?!” She raised an eyebrow at him, but her eyes were brighter than ever. “Funny, I don’t recall hearing any proposal.” The smile on her lips grew, and she tilted her head toward him slightly, teasingly, the silver circlet in her hair—a perfectly aligned match for the Sakarnen that rested on her chest—glimmering. She held her hand out in front of her, letting her brow furrow slightly as she ran her eyes over her fingers in mock analysis. “I don’t see a ring either.”

“I did give you one.” Rand found himself smiling along with her. He pointed to her chest with his eyes, delighting in the way surprise flickered slightly in her eyes. “You turned it into a necklace.”

Rand wondered if she would have said anything if he had told her, that day when he had handed her the Sakarnen, that this was what it meant to him.

That he was asking her for a commitment much more eternal than a moment.

That he was giving up his life, his name, him , in her hands, trusting that she would say ‘ yes' .

He saw, though, the way her gaze dropped, quickly and deliberately, to the necklace on her chest before she lifted her eyes and locked with his again, a thread of uncertainty — a charming mix of uncertainty, fear, surprise and anticipation, almost too youthful for her — glimmering in the corners of her eyes. A silent question. Waiting for confirmation, to know if he was serious — really seriously — and he gave it, with a small and almost imperceptible movement of his head.

Of course, he meant it.

He meant it when he gave up the Sakarnen for her, and he meant it even more now.

Her eyes glowed for a second, the blue seeming to melt and spread, and Rand realized he had been holding his breath, watching as she slowly reached for her chest.

The thin thread of Power shimmered, imperceptible to anyone but the two of them, and Rand felt, rather than saw, the fabric of reality bending beneath her will.

The necklace came undone, slowly, and he sucked in a sharp breath as she pulled her hand away from her chest and held it out slightly, opening it just enough for him to see the ring — polished silver intertwined in an elegant, closed design, strands of silk like fine webs woven around the edge, and a stone in the center, glistening on her hand — before she slid the ring onto the ring finger of her left hand.

Rand gasped and stepped forward, closer to her, pulling her to him by the waist, then bringing her fingers to his lips. He held her gaze with his as he did so, and saw perfectly the way she held her breath for a second before biting those sinful lips, trapping him with her teeth, her eyes burning into his.

He took a deep breath, his eyes still locked on hers, and when he spoke, his voice didn't waver.

"Yes?"

She smiled at him, her other hand disappearing to caress his chin, her index finger curved in a soft, familiar caress, but she didn’t respond. Rand felt that icy chill begin — slowly— to spread inside him, and he sat up a little more, straightening his spine.

She watched, the smile on her lips growing until it took on that feline shadow, hungry and dangerous, and his hackles rose in response, rising.

Her hand moved slowly, lifting his chin up with her index finger.

Rand closed his eyes before he felt the shadow of her lips, a brush as light as feathers, a phantom pressure that disappeared as quickly as it had come. Her breath fanned against his lips, warm and familiar, and Rand felt the word as if it had come from within him, her lips brushing his a little closer as she spoke, a tease made of love and power.

"Yes."

Rand smiled against her lips, heat spreading through his body, intoxicating him as if he had been drunk for hours. He opened his eyes to hers, reveling in the way her eyes shone with satisfaction and danger and happiness in a way he feared he could never make her feel.

Lews was right, Rand thought briefly.

It was worth it.

For that — for that opportunity, that turning of the wheel, where he could look at her like that; have her look at him like that — it was worth it. All of it; all the pain and the fatigue and the struggle; even the disturbing amount of politics he was forced to undergo and deal with. It was worth it, and for a second, the world, his armies, the Last Battle, everything that surrounded him with prophecies and choices, the crushing weight that eternally settled on his shoulders, disappeared.

There was only her.

Her eyes.

And the way her gaze stripped him, silently, layer after layer, until there was nothing left but the man — not the Dragon, not Car’a’carn, not the Conqueror of Andor, but just him. Rand al’Thor, the shepherd who had grown up running across the fields of the Two Rivers and who sat on a rock to dream of the world.

Rand felt his chest rise and fall slowly, the air suddenly too thick for him to breathe, his throat tightening, his hand trembling slightly on her waist.

He had saved her, he remembered.

He loved her, he chose her and he saved her.

He had saved her.

And what was in her eyes… Light, he loved those eyes.

He loved the way she looked at him, the way her eyes sparkled, the way her body melted into his perfectly, fitting into his like it was made for him. And he loved how strong she was; her ferocity, her confidence. The way she carried herself, the way she talked, the way she walked, the way she existed. But when she let the walls down… when she let him see that vulnerability of hers, raw, open and sincere…

Rand had wondered how many times it was possible to fall in love with the same person.

How many times could he fall in love with her — again and again — and he had discovered that there were no limits, because every time she looked at him that way— as if it were he who could break her, and not the other way around, as if he were the one who held the key to her heart and not she who dominated his, dominated him, as if he held the sun — every time she let herself be vulnerable around him, let him see her wounds and her desires and dreams and fears, he fell in love with her all over again.

Behind him, a soft noise — almost a muffled sigh — reminded him that they were not alone, and Rand widened his eyes slightly, nearly jumping, turning, his hand curled around her waist.

His father stood a few paces behind, his dark eyes fixed on her, his expression unreadable. His jaw was set, his posture stiff and a little stiff, but his eyes were light, calm, and unaffected.

“Father,” he murmured again, his hand dropping from her waist to grip her fingers, pulling her closer. “I know you know her by another name, but I want you to meet Mierin Eronaile.” He paused, considered for a second, and then let the words fall out, as true as they felt. “Part of my soul.”

Tam let his eyes rake over her slowly. It wasn’t judgment he saw in her eyes, but it wasn’t acceptance either. A silent assessment, his eyes roving from the silver circlet atop her black hair, to the way she stood — the posture of a queen — the way she stood beside him, her chin lifted, without shame or fear, looking him straight in the eye as he assessed her.

For a moment, a moment too long, no one spoke.

Then Tam bowed his head, just a little, enough to be respectful but not submissive, and Rand let out a breath and breathed . His father's lips twisted into a knowing smirk at the sound, and Rand wondered if this was what he looked like when he was caught doing something he shouldn't have as a child, and stood waiting for correction while his father glared at him.

He reached forward slowly, still laughing — for real this time, a muffled sound — and Rand watched as Lanfear graced her lips with a similar smile, amused by the uneasiness emanating so strongly from him.

“It’s a pleasure, Mierin.”

“My own.” She murmured, accepting his hand in a shake, her voice in that pleasantly sweet, perfectly balanced tone that Rand had discovered she used deliberately when she wanted to win someone over without making it obvious that she did so. “You raised him well.”

Tam smiled at her, just a little, but Rand recognized the expression—it was the same one he’d worn when he’d first hit a target with his bow unaided. The same one he’d seen earlier that had made him break down.

Pride.

“It wasn’t that hard.” He stated, shrugging at her, nodding and following her. “A little stubborn, but nothing I couldn’t handle.” Tam shot him a quick glance. “He’s always been a good boy.”

Lanfear laughed, low and melodious, and Rand felt his cheeks burn slightly before she even opened her mouth, knowing full well what she would say.

“He still is.”

“Do you have to?!” Rand let out a snort, glaring at her, but there was no real reprimand in the words.

“Why, of course I do!” She smiled at him, amused. “How else am I supposed to win over your father if I don’t let him embarrass you?!”

Tam gave a low laugh, shaking his head, and crossed his arms, watching the two of them with that patient gaze Rand knew so well— the one that saw everything, every detail, and missed nothing, even when he didn't speak, even when he didn't even know there was something to be seen.

Rand let his hand leave her waist to run it quickly over the back of his neck, half embarrassed, half surrendered, waiting for a word, a sentence — a decision — and when he looked back at his father, he saw that he still had his eyes fixed on her.

“I was told you saved his life.” He said finally. “In Tar Valon. Fought others like you.” 

Lanfear blinked once. 

“Violently, I suppose you heard.” She paused, unbothered when he nodded. “Your son is a much-wanted man. Sometimes it takes more than he’s willing to do alone to keep him safe.” She shrugged. “I really don't have such... limitations .”

It almost looked like respect, Rand realized, what he saw glow in his father's eyes.

A cautious respect, but still respect.

“Whoever she was in the past, Rand al’Thor…” Tam turned to him, and Rand’s eyes widened slightly, startled by the abrupt change in tone, his father’s firm, resolute voice echoing in the empty hall. “I raised you to be a man of honor.” He pointed at him, and Rand slowly relaxed at the words; at what he was saying. “And she looks like she bites.” He winked at him. “Best to stay on her good side.”

Her laughter echoed loudly in the hall, and Rand wrapped her against his chest, his arm resting around her shoulders and pulling her close to him.

“Oh, I can bite.” She purred to Tam, lovely and deceptively sweet, and Rand could feel the danger emanating from her, the teeth hidden behind her smile — so close to his neck that if he had been anyone else, it would have left him cold, frozen with fear, and not made the blood in his body bubble like it did in his — long before she spoke and it was satisfaction and excitement and pleasure that ate at him as she did so. “I can bite really hard .”

Tam arched an eyebrow, surprised at the ease with which she spoke — or perhaps at the boldness, at the aura of danger she had let emanate from herself, not hiding from him completely and letting him feel a little of what it was like to be Lanfear — but he let out a muffled laugh, his gaze softening even further as he gave Rand one of those silent looks.

You'll need to be strong to keep up with her, boy, but I can see you want to.

If you’re sure… I suppose you chose well.

“I suppose you can.” He said finally, his voice filled with quiet humor, before looking at Rand once more, with that quiet pride that always made his heart clench, that made him want to cry. “Promise me you’ll treat her right.”

Rand blinked, surprised by the simplicity and force of the request. By the sincerity in his father’s eyes. He hadn’t been the only one, he knew, seeing all too well the way Lanfear blinked — once, twice — taken aback, almost taking a step back, a glimpse of surprise in her eyes. Something more too.

It seemed silly, Rand blinked, that this was what his father had to say.

Nothing about her being who she was.

About what it meant to have her by his side.

But maybe it was because it was he, Rand realized. Because that was this conversation was: a son seeking his father's acceptance; a nod of acceptance to live his own life and bring a dream to life. A son seeking the blessing of the man he had wanted to emulate as a child and still admired as an adult.

Perhaps because he was Tam al'Thor and there was not, nor would there ever be, another like him.

A warrior and a man of honor.

A father.

And his father did not speak to the Dragon, but to his son.

Always with the son.

It was easy to say the words.

“I promise, Dad.”

It was easy to smile, sincere and honest.

It was easy to get them back inside.

And when she curled up next to him on the bed — on the left side, of course — Rand lowered his lips to her shoulder and smiled again, holding her against his chest.

It was easy and simple and good , and Rand lay down, closed his eyes, and slept.

And dreamed.

~

Rand al’Thor was dreaming.

He was dreaming and he knew he was dreaming, his feet carrying him this way and that, searching for secrets in Tel'aran'rhiod as he had learned to do in what were now months, years.

The cave was in a far corner he had never visited before. Something inside him was guiding him there, however, and Rand allowed himself to be guided, sinking into the darkness until he was in the center of the cavern.

A man was waiting for him, sitting on a rock.

His eyes were turned upward, and Rand realized with surprise and curiosity that although the cave was dark up to this point, the ceiling stretched out, opening enough for him to see the stars, the moon shining, seeming close enough to leave him perfectly illuminated, his face visible.

Rand had never seen him before.

The man adjusted himself on the rock, his eyes following the moon again, and Rand let his own roam over him.

He was tall.

Very high.

As tall as he was, except that where red stained his own head, his was covered in darkness, long hair falling past his shoulders, a frightening contrast to the blue of his eyes and pale skin; he almost reminded him of her, except that where her eyes radiated heat, his were cold.

There was something connecting him, Rand realized.

Something that made his body, his being, become hyper aware of his presence, as if he were crawling on his back, clinging to his skin.

The man turned his face away from the moon, and Rand inevitably took a step back.

His eyes were familiar to him.

Too familiar.

The name came to his head, to his tongue, and was out before he could think not to.

"Elan?"

His face contorted; not anger, not disgust, but something deeper. Weariness, Rand realized; a deep weariness that showed on his face at the prospect of recognition.

Of its existence.

“I had that name, once,” he murmured. His voice was different, too, Rand realized. Where Ishamael’s was calm, poetic even, this one was deep, thick. Beautiful, in a strange way; captivating. “Now I have another.” He murmured, and turned his eyes to the moon again. “My name is Moridin, Rand al’Thor; as you were once Lews.”

“I’m still Lews.” Rand murmured, for some reason he didn’t know. A force that compelled him to speak. “A part of me is,” he said, taking that step back. “A name can’t kill a soul.”

“It can, if there is nothing else to remind the original.”

“For you, there is.” Rand said, his hand curling into a fist. He wanted, he realized, for some reason, to look away from the moon and back at him. He wanted to look into those eyes and say words that weren’t his own. Words that weren’t his to say, but that he knew enough to know were true. “There is Mierin Eronaile.” He growled, and even in the dream world, or wherever this new, unfamiliar space was where he had ventured, her name rang out like a drum. Moiridin — Ishamael — turned his eyes to him at last; there was no warmth in them, only a deep exhaustion. “For Elan Tedronai, there is Mierin Eronaile. For Elan Tedronai there will always be Mierin Eronaile.”

He didn’t answer, those dry eyes roving over him, over and over, and Rand wondered if he should be afraid. If he should be preparing for a fight. He didn’t want to fight, he decided; he was tired of fighting for today.

“I thought you were dead.” He murmured, approaching slowly. There was a rock parallel to his, and Rand sat up slowly. The light really did look pretty tonight, he realized. “I thought I killed you.”

“The only way to ensure that one of Shai’tan’s servants remains dead is to destroy it with Balefire.” He muttered. “If you don’t, we can always come back. We just have to be called.” His voice echoed through the empty space of the cavern, the sound reverberating through the darkness. “Are you tired, Rand al’Thor, or is this exhaustion weighing me down is solely my own?”

Rand muttered an answer, blinking slowly.

“I’m always tired.” 

“Yes… I suppose you are.” He murmured, tilting his head back slightly to look up at the stars. “It’s tiring, isn’t it, living?! Over and over, never doing anything different. Never achieving a different result. We’re born, and we die, and then we’re born again… Have you ever wondered, Rand, if the only reason you’re still fighting, it’s because you haven’t realized you’ve already lost?” He paused, and if it hadn’t been for the way he’d said his name, Rand would have thought he’d forgotten he was there. “Over and over. The Wheel keeps turning. The Pattern keeps weaving. You’re still caught up in it, just like me. Just like all of us.”

Silence fell, heavy as stone and thick as the darkness that surrounded them.

“All we do is noise.” He spoke again. “A feeble, helpless sound, trying to rise against the eternal thunder of the Wheel.”

“You want to break it.”

It wasn't a question.

Moridin tilted his head.

“It binds us. The Pattern. The Wheel. We merely follow the threads laid upon us. There is no freedom in it. There is no choice. The only real choice left, Rand al’Thor, is to refuse to play the game any longer.”

Rand didn't respond for a while, letting his eyes search those stars a little longer.

“I don’t want to destroy it.” He said slowly, when his words had settled, the echo fading into the darkness. “I don’t intent to break the Wheel.”

“Do you even want anything, Rand?” he murmured in response. “Do you know what you want, or are you just following what’s already been laid out for you?” He turned to face him. “Can you tell the difference, old friend?”

Rand closed his eyes for a moment. He saw Tam. He saw Lanfear. That ring on her slender finger. He saw that rock where he sat. Faces he loved.

“I want to live.” He said finally. “I want it to be worth it. I want to do it right this time. I want a world where people don’t have to die before they know if they want a cabin in the woods.” He paused, blinking slowly. “I want to live and I want to make Mierin Eronaile happy.”

Moridin was silent for a while. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost thoughtful.

“A dream.” He whispered the last word, and then looked away again, at the moon. It seemed closer than it should have been, Rand noticed, as if he could reach out and touch it. For a moment he almost did, but then he spoke again, pulling him from his reverie. “You dream, Rand al’Thor, of what the wheel will never allow you to live.”

“I don’t care what the wheel allows or doesn’t allow! I’m going to make it happen.” Rand stated, letting his eyes rest on him. “This time, I’m going to make it happen, Elan. I’m going to make her laugh like she laughed on your shoulder.”

It had been bait, a try, but it had worked, and Rand watched, with something heavy in his chest — an ache he didn’t understand — as his eyes lit up slightly before the brightness was swallowed up again. Moridin closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, there was something new in them. Not emotion — not yet — but a crack. A faint flaw in the mask of indifference.

“She used to laugh, like the sound of bells ringing in open fields.” He blinked, slowly, one hand rising slightly in front of him, pulling. Pulling the moon closer. “Does she still laugh like that?”

“Sometimes,” Rand murmured. “Less now.” He went on, because it was true. Because it was a war and they were enemies, but once, long ago, there had been Lews Therin Telamon, Elan Morin Tedronai, and Mierin Eronaile, the nexus between them. “That laugh was yours. It is yours. Lews used to try to wrest it from her, and I will try too, but I don't think there's a turn of the wheel we'll be able to make.”

“Hmm…” He murmured. “Are these my memories, or are we just seeing fragments of someone else’s life?” He blinked, his voice low and tired. “Another name; another face. Another turn of the wheel.”

Rand pressed his lips together, and for a moment they were silent, two cracked mirrors. It was strange, he realized, that this was exactly how he felt. There was a cord between them, he realized. He had felt it the moment he had torn the stain from Saidin and saw with clear eyes, with a clear mind, everything that was inside him — everything that surrounded him — a connection that made him feel the weariness in his bones.

“It doesn’t matter where the memory comes from,” Rand finally replied. “If the feeling is true.”

“And is it?” He paused, turning to him. “Is the feeling true, Rand al’ Thor? Can you tell?”

Rand frowned for a second in disbelief.

“You’re kidding, right?!” He laughed, almost growled, if it weren’t for the way the man was looking at him with deadly seriousness. “If she were here, she would knock your teeth out for even  thinking that —” He growled, his hand clenching into fists. “It’s obvious that the feelings are true, you idiot. She still — she still dreams with you. When she let herself breathe enough to sleep and dream by her own, it's always the three of us somewhere. Sometimes just the two of you. She still remember you. Still love you with the same depth, the same sincerity that she did before. How can you even think — you are —” He laughed, full of fury and anger and frustration. “You are Elan!”  

Moridin did not respond immediately.

He watched the anger in Rand’s eyes, as if he were measuring it, weighing its intensity against something inside himself.

“You really love her, don’t you?” He asked, but didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “Lews couldn’t talk about her like that; not really. Loved her, but couldn’t understand. Understand her; understand us. What we  were to ourselves and to each other. That’s good… She needs someone to hold her sometimes.” He paused, as if unsure of his own feelings, his own words. “If you can…” he said finally. “If you can give her what Lews couldn’t… then maybe, Rand al’Thor… maybe you’re worthy of breaking the Wheel. Or fixing it.”

The silence returned, and this time it was not heavy, but shared. Something unspoken, Rand left. An unspoken understanding, a rare moment when the threads of the Pattern were not at war, but intertwined. A single link, even after so long.

The same certainty; words left unsaid.

Lews didn’t deserve her.

Didn't love her enough.

“You will fail,” Moridin said at last. Rand recognized the sadness in his words. That low line of acceptance, of pity; a smooth edge of wishing that somehow he could do it. Could give her what she deserved. “Not out of weakness, but because the world is not made for it. The Wheel…it is not broken by love.”

“Perhaps not,” Rand replied with a slight shrug. “But it can be guided by it.”

Moridin stared at him for a long time, as if searching for something in his face.

Whatever it was, Rand assumed he had found it, as he stood up, reaching into his pants pocket.

“Part of me is in you.” He murmured. “And part of you is in me.”

Rand knew. He had recognized it for what it was the second his feet had carried him to that cave. A thread that had crossed in Illian when he had fought Demadred, Balefire crossed against Balefire, found the shadow of power of someone whose face he had not seen.

He saw it now.

And felt the invisible thread that connected them both, intertwined flows of power.

“This shouldn’t exist.”

“Many things were not meant to exist, and yet they persist.”

Rand didn’t answer, reaching into his own pocket. He had brought the red cloak into the dream, he realized. A stain like blood in the darkness.

“What does that make us?” he asked finally. “I’m assuming the connection is what brought me here today; you wouldn’t bring me to watch the stars. The moon.”

Her.

“No,” Moridin confirmed. “I wouldn’t.” His voice had returned to that dead tone, low and husky and devoid of warmth. “That makes us what we’ve always been, Lews. Two sides of the same coin.”

Rand didn't respond, letting the silence dominate the space. He didn't move away either, choosing to watch the stars for a little longer. Beside him, Moridin had his head tilted back slightly to do the same. It wasn't until he felt a touch on his skin, arms wrapping tighter around him from behind, that Rand took his eyes off the moon.

His voice sounded too low when he spoke.

Almost hurt.

He wanted to say something — forgive me, come back with us, it doesn't have to be like this — but the words died in his throat. Instead, only one word sounded besides his name.

Beside his true name. 

The name that accompanied the soul.

“Goodbye, Elan.”

Rand saw that fleeting gleam in his eyes again; it was dead before he could even recognize it.

“Goodbye, Lews.”

It wasn't until he took the last necessary step, preparing to leave the light of that hidden, deep part of the cave and return to his bed, to reality, that Moridin spoke again., and it wasn't sadness or tiredness that marked his voice, but something deeper.

Something more intimate.

“If she smiles like that again... let me know.”

Rand hesitated.

But the words stung inside him, in that part of him that had walked with a different version of the man in front of him. Loved a version of that man. 

The friend.

He had loved the friend, and she had loved the friend, the brother, the lover, and he knew the answer, even though no question had been asked.

He knew the truth.

“If you want to see her smile again, Elan… visit her dreams.” Rand let his eyes hold his, trying to make sure he would listen. That he would see the truth in the words and in him, even if that cord between them guaranteed he would, one way or another. “She’ll only laugh like that for you.”

~

Lanfear woke up crying.

Sobbing.

Loud and desperate and choking, stumbling over the bedsheets as she tried to breathe.

It was the first time Rand had seen her cry like that and he held her against him and let her soak his shirt until the fabric was plastered to her body and until she had stopped whispering into the void, choking with a name.

Choking on a soul.

~

Rand had wondered, many times over the past two years since he had known her, how things would have turned out if she had truly been his enemy. If she had been dedicated to destroying him. He had sometimes wondered what she would have looked like if she had been actively seeking to undermine his actions.

She was much worse than he had imagined.

He hadn’t known exactly what she’d expected when she’d told Elan to visit her one last time, but he’d known, when she’d cried herself limp against his chest, that he had. And he’d known, when she’d opened her eyes and slowly pulled away from him, tugging and straightening the fabric of her dress, that the icy anger that was beginning to fill the air in the room — tense and sharp and suffocating — wasn’t coming from him.

She hadn’t said a word as she left the room, her hair swinging behind her as her steps became faster, harder, as if she were marching down the stairs rather than walking; Rand had followed her in silence, ignoring the thread of fear that threatened to creep up his spine as her shoulders stiffened, her hands curling into tight fists.

He didn't ask when she opened a portal to Travel, but followed her anyway.

Mat looked up from the table, wide and surprised, and Rand tried not to let his own show the same surprise as he stood behind her, his hand in his pants pocket.

He raised an eyebrow, confused.

"Hello -"

“I want your army, Fortuona Paendrag.” She cut him off before he could finish his sentence. Rand noticed for the first time the woman standing beside him, staring at them with little satisfaction, her dark skin gleaming in the sunlight streaming into the room. She raised an eyebrow of her own, a clear sign of displeasure and disbelief at the firmness with which she had spoken. At the audacity. “And you are going to give it to me.”

Mat opened his mouth.

Then closed it again.

Rand couldn’t blame him. 

Lanfear stood still, her hands shaking at her sides — anger, Rand knew, felt the coldness flooding the place—, chin raised, eyes so fixed on Fortuona that they seemed ready to pierce something beyond flesh, as if they would split her from the inside at any moment.

“You are waiting for signs, omens, reading tea leaves and stars.” Lanfear spat, each syllable a honed blade. “Refusing to accept the Dragon Reborn for what it is, hiding behind a logic that doesn’t hold itself. This little game is beneath me, and you will not play it with me.”

Fortuona didn’t move, but her neck stiffened, and Rand knew she had taken the offense perfectly well.

Your acts are beneath me.

Rand stood where he was, his back against the wall beside the hall door, but he did not move; his posture remained the same, perfectly unaffected by the prospect of any reprisal. Standing straight before the table, the morning light fell on Mat’s face and glinted off the gold rings dangling from the brim of his hat, and Rand saw the way he watched Lanfear, wondering if it was possible to outrun the woman she had just offended.

"You want my   army.” Fortuona said at last, her voice calm, controlled, but Rand noticed the slight gesture of her hand—one of the damane in the corner of the room moved almost imperceptibly, as if bracing himself for something. “And who exactly are you to make such a demand, woman?”

Lanfear did not answer immediately. Her eyes never left the Emperor’s. Rand could feel the tension in the air—something invisible but sharp as broken glass underfoot.

When she spoke, it was low. 

Almost soft.

“I am my father’s daughter.” She inclined her head slightly, and Rand almost thought she might smile. “And if you do not give me your armies, Empress, I will break your chains with my own hands and lead your collared women against their own masters. And you will watch. Because my father angered me and if you are with me or not, you will see what happens when the Dark One raises a daughter.”

Fortuona didn’t answer, but there was a chill in the air and Rand wondered if it came from the subtle channeling of some damane or something else. Whatever it was, Lanfear ignored it completely.

“If you want some omen,” she said, “look at me . Stand still, deny me, and see what I will awaken.”

One of the guards moved. Mat cleared his throat.

“Tuon…” he began.

Not completed.

Lanfear took a step forward.

“I want your armies. And I want your husband.” She ordered, pushing the words through her teeth; Rand stiffened where he stood, but she didn’t give him time to think about the meaning of her words. “I want his mind.” She added, clarified, as if sensing the uneasiness that was rising in him. “I want the war general. All the war generals that inhabit your mind, Matrim Cauthon.”

Mat straightened up a little more.

"Why?"

“Because my father took something from me.” She growled the words. “And I’m going to take something from him in return.”

Mat glanced at Tuon, his hat slightly askew, his eyes even more alert than they usually seemed. His shoulders were tense, Rand saw, and knew Mat could see that she meant every word; that this was no small threat.

It was personal. Deep.

Ancient.

A promise, made in the name of a man that no longer existed.

Tuon remained seated, her right hand resting on the arm of her chair, her fingers drumming, but only once. Long enough for Rand to realize how much she was weighing her options. What it would take to defeat her, and whether that would mean making him an enemy.

Her voice was low when she spoke.

“You are Lanfear.” She murmured at last, and looked up at the woman, refusing to appear weak; to appear less than an empress. “There is an omen about you in the depths of Seachan. A one-woman army, whose hands are dripped in blood and take what is denied. A woman with mirror eyes and night blood, Daugther of the Darkness.” She singed, as if it were a story lost in time. “ Her name is no name, her name is power, her name is fury and the walls the Father built in flesh will crack beneath the fingers of his daughter.”

If she knew of the existence of the prophecy, Lanfear did not let on. Her eyes remained the same, burning cold.

“Give me my name and what is denied to me, then.” She said at last, her voice low, dangerous. “Or tempt fate and find out how lucky you are, Empress.”

For a moment, the entire hall seemed to hold its breath and Rand moved just enough to reach the hilt of his sword. But he didn’t touch it. He didn’t need to. Whatever was about to happen would be decided without him.

Tuon didn’t answer, but her eyes, black as obsidian, narrowed slightly. There was understanding there, Rand saw. And calculation. And fear… fear, Rand saw, hidden beneath the bravery. Fear and uncertainty, trying to find the right path. To figure out what to do.

Rand stepped forward.

Just one.

But it was enough to catch her eyes.

All eyes.

Lanfear did not turn to him, but nodded slightly, and Rand wondered if she had known all along. If she had already figured out what he had planned for Empress Seachan himself. Rand walked past her, not without noticing the way she seemed to pull the air around her, like a furnace sucking in everything around it before exploding, but she remained silent, letting him do what was his to do.

He stood before Tuon. He kept his hands down. He pushed the power away. And then — only then — he began to sing.

His voice came out low, hoarse at first. An old song. One he hadn't heard since... before .
In the Ancient Tongue. About seeds and earth and deep roots.

Rand didn’t know exactly where it came from. Maybe from Lews Therin. Maybe from an even older place. From some deep place in his head. A knowledge he didn’t know the origin of, but it had soft words.

An invocation.

And as the garden bloomed around them, Fortuona, Empress of the Seachan Empire, gasped, her eyes widening slightly.

An omen of peace.

Lanfear didn't wait for her to speak.

“You’re coming with me.” She gestured to Mat, already moving, making room to the right for him to stand beside her in the portal. Later, Rand decided, he would reflect on how easily the man had risen, accepting the call. “You,” she called to him, her voice softening only slightly. “Start weaving that stupid peace!”

~

Mat wanted to ask.

He really wanted to ask.

She didn't seem receptive, so he kept his mouth shut, and followed her as she dragged him back and forth. It wasn't until she pulled him out of yet another portal that he nearly tripped over his own feet as his eyes widened and he was confronted by the sight of the Merrilor Field he forced himself to ask, unable to hold it back for a second longer.

"You’re okay?"

She stopped. A full second. That was all. Then she straightened her shoulders and kept walking, her white dress dragging against the half-dry grass. He had already assumed that she wouldn’t speak, that she would let the question evaporate into thin air, when she did.

A single word, quick. Direct. No frills.

"No." 

Mat stumbled over a tuft of grass, surprised that she had spoken, and arched an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected the truth. Least of all that truth, and it didn’t hurt to admit that something about her answer— maybe the blunt way it had come out — had caught him off guard. He let his eyes roam over her, quickly. Beneath the anger — and there was a lot of anger — there was a trace of pain, he noticed.

Something small, that if she were anyone else, he would call hurt.

She didn't want to talk about it either, it was obvious.

With no one, much less with him.

He could do that, Mat decided. 

He could be helpful and let her do what she had planned, without pestering her with questions she didn’t want to answer. Especially if there was a chance she might lose her temper and choose less… peaceful methods.

“Why are we here?” he asked, reaching into his pockets, his eyes roaming the empty field.

Very soon, he blinked, the field would be full. The Last Battle was drawing closer every day, and he could feel it in the wind. The call to battle. 

To war.

“Rand chose this place,” she said. “He hasn’t told everyone yet, but he has. And while I understand why he’s trying, the Amyrlin Seat will find him here, with allies, to try to stop him from breaking the seals of my father's prison and put into practice what he have planned. I saw it in her dreams.” She paused, and Mat noticed the way she glanced up at the sky for a second, an almost soft look on her face. “I know him. He thought of history, of honor. But you and I, Mathrim.” She turned her eyes to him. “We think of war .”

Mat frowned, slightly confused.

“I’m not sure if I understand what you’re getting at.” He leaned back. “These will be allied forces; we need them. Are you suggesting a preemptive strike? Stopping Egwene from trying before she can? That would throw a wrench into Rand’s grand schemes. It would slow us down too. Maybe even cost us the win.”

“No.” She said seriously. “I’m suggesting control. Strategy. Rand will need to convince them of his actions; that part cannot be changed. But the world will gather here. Kingdoms, armies, kings and soldiers. And it would be foolish of my father not to take advantage of that. And my father is not foolish.” She met his eyes. “He will try to break the line, and the alliances that will be made will be fragile enough for him to succeed. I don’t want to kill the Dragon’s allies, I want to improve them. And you, Matrim Cauthon, will make sure they all stand on the right day and don't kill each other before then.”

Mat was silent for a long moment, his mind unraveling her words one by one, understanding what she was getting at.

“You want me to organize all the armies in the world?! Are you insane?! ” He snorted, pausing his words as if speaking to a child, ignoring the way she rolled her eyes with the last question. “You know I’m not the commander of the forces of light, right?!”

“No…” She smiled at him. “But you’re a very good strategist, and we both know there are many ways to lead an army than at the front of it.” She tilted her chin at him slightly. “You see more than anyone, Matrim. The generals in you see more than strategy — they see patterns, instinct — and you think like a battlefield where there is still only grass. I know you began assessing the field the second you opened your eyes.”

Mat snorted.

Of course, she knew.

And he had done just that and knew exactly what she was talking about.

He had seen and analyzed everything.

From the way The Mora River ran to the west, its glow visible even from a distance, and it was both a natural obstacle — useful for defense and a danger to anyone trapped against it —, to the north, the dense forest was a good alternative for ambushes, but impossible to move heavy troops. 

To the south, the fields widened, too open, too flat.

Great for knights. Terrible for surprises.

He bit the corner of his lip. It was too flat in many places, yes.

Too open.

But among the hills…

There were spaces where forces could hide, where a retreat could turn into a trap and could do a lot with a few people. The kind of place where someone with too big an ego would think they had the upper hand, only to realize too late that they had been led straight to their death,

She made a little noise beside him, and Mat saw the shadow of her tongue rest over her teeth, fierce and dangerous.

Satisfied.

“Tell me what you see.”

Mat shoved his hands in his pockets. When he spoke, his voice was loud and firm.

“I see a death camp.”

She didn't respond, waving for him to continue.

“There are four clear directions of attack,” he said. “But only two are viable with heavy force. The prevailing wind is from the east—banners will move best there, which can make a difference when you’re fighting a war with men who believe in signs. That hill over there” — he pointed with his chin — “looks harmless. But from there, you can see half the field and control the formations, seeing moves before they are made and cutting them off before they happen. If I were Egwene, I’d camp there; it would be a great asset to the Aes Sedai. But she won’t. She’ll choose a central position, to show herself impartial. And then she’ll lose the best commanding vantage point in the field.”

She moved her hands, tracing something in the air, but Mat paid little attention to the golden line of Power taking shape before her.

“Roedran will want to get ahead. He needs to, to maintain the illusion of power. But his men are poorly trained and will break at the first shock. Galad will refuse to give ground for anything but ‘honor,’ so he will be difficult to move even when strategy demands it. And the Aiel…”

He sighed.

“Well... They go wherever they want.”

“And how much of this…” She approached, slowly, shuffling her feet across the grass to stand in front of him; her dress was billowing in the wind, Mat noticed. “Do you think they will see?”

The ugly easy answer.

“Nothing.”

A smile played on her lips, sharp and dangerous and knowing, and Mat narrowed his eyes, watching her walk across the grass of Merrilor Field as if the world still revolved around her — which, now that he thought about it, it might. It was hard to tell with these women of Power, and Lanfear was worse than all of them put together.

“Nothing, indeed.” She murmured, purring. She liked doing that, Mat had noticed. Purring like a cat. It made his hair stand on end. As if he were on a battlefield and death was staring him in the face through the eyes of an enemy. He had wondered what it felt like when she did that to Rand; how he could see the teasing, the sensuality, and not the animal lurking fiercely behind the sound. “Do you know why I like you, Mathrim?” She asked, and Mat decided there was no point in pretending otherwise, fake any surprise that wasn’t there. It was obvious that she liked him. In a strange way, as strange as the way he liked her. “It’s because you are old . Old and wise. And because of that, because you are an old soul in a new body, you are the only one of the Dragon's friends who understand the world as it is.”

Mat raised an eyebrow at her.

“You see in gray, while the rest of them struggles to separate white from black.” She cocked her head to the side. “And that makes you understand why sometimes you have to make a deal with someone the world considers black. You judge the world all the time, Matrim Cauthon, weighing which side of the dice favors you; and you weighed me, over and over, one dream at a time, enough to know that it is better to have me as an ally than an enemy; that I want you as an ally. You are a version of me.” She curled her lips at him, making the last word pop. “And I weighed you back long before that first meeting of ours...”

He looked at her, wondering if he should answer. If there was something to be answered. She smiled back, in a way that wasn't sweet, but also wasn't cruel or dangerous.

“The world in gray, Matrim Cauthon.” She restated it, a simple justification for a very complex whole. “The world in gray and a game of dice with life, a game we both refuse to lose.”

“Yeah well, there’s a limit to luck and if I keep getting dragged from one place to another, mine will run out pretty soon.” He snorted but straightened his shoulders, letting his eyes roam over her, searching for a sign of a lie. For a game within a game.“If I do this…” Mat murmured finally, naming what she wanted, “If I pull the strings, put the lords and commanders where they belong, make them hate each other less than they hate the Dark One for a few days…” He turned to face her. “What will you do, Lanfear?”

She didn't respond immediately.

For a moment, Mat thought she wouldn't; that the wind that blew between them would sweep them away and away again.

But she stayed.

“I’m going to play a game.” She murmured, simple and resolute. “A game my father taught me, many, many years ago.” She brushed a finger over the silver circlet that adorned her head, before letting her hand fall back to her side. “A father-daughter game.”

“Why?” Mat asked. That other question he’d wanted to ask all along. “Why now?! You’ve helped before, yes, but you’ve never been so directly active in the fight. Why are you choosing sides now?” 

He paused, considering if he should continue. 

Decided that he would; had already started anyway and she needed him. 

“It’s not for Rand. I know you love him, it’s pretty obvious that you do. But that’s not all and you also love yourself quite much." He blinked.  "You haven’t made a single move directly against the Dark One yet, and you are still playing for your own favor. Rand can’t see it, not really, because he loves you too much and even tough he knows who you are — what you are —, because he knows what you are, he chooses to look profoundly only at the parts of you that are… gray . So that he can continue to love you without having to think about what that means of him. But I do see the dark ones.” 

He looked at her, eyes thinning. 

“And I think you haven’t made a move yet because you want to have a chance of recovering his favor if we lose. A prodigal daughter, returning to her father's arms. Which is fine for me; I don’t judge.” He shrugged “Can’t blame you for thinking ahead of time, I would do it too if I was you and were doing what you are. But that’s dangerous. For you and for all of us. Specially to Rand; he let his guard down with you, and he won’t see it coming if you betray him again. If you do, he will weaken and it could cost us the world. And I can’t pretend that I have not seen it, just as easy as I see all of this.” He pointed to the camp. “So, I’ll tell you this now, because I know why you like me, I always did, and I know you know that I like you back: I will do what you asked me, Lanfear, if you promise me — promise — that you won’t abandon the fight later; if you tell me truth.” He blinked. “Why are you putting yourself officially against him now? What changed?”

“See?” She smiled at him. “ Gray .” Her eyes softened for a second, a quick trace of affection cutting through the blue. “I won't betray him, Mat.” She murmured, and Mat realized it was the first time she'd called him that. “Yes, I do more than I say; much more. Things that it would take a thousand lives for you to even find out that I was on it; that it had my fingers on it. And yes, it is, mostly for my own gain. I want power.” She shrugged. “It's just who I am.” 

Mat shivered where he stood, his body tensing. 

“But I won't betray him. Not him.” She lifted her chin to him, letting her eyes rest on his. “You may not believe it, Mathrim, but I am loyal to those I love; to those who love me back. And I do love Rand. And... I loved my father.” She blinked. “In a strange way that no one can understand, not even those who walked in the shadows with me. And because of that I would refrain from the war, from acting directly against him; because even now, even after what I did to save Rand, he still refrains from acting against me. Still lets me touch the same power he gave me when I was supposedly loyal to him even if I use against his forces; still refuses to kill me, to attack me. Still refuses to harm me.” She paused. “Still call me daughter.”

“But you are acting against him. Right now on this field.” Mat took a careful step closer, his hands in his pants pockets. “With me .”

“I suppose so.” She chuckled. “I’m hard to love.” She murmured, and it didn’t sound like a lie at all, her eyes sad. She chuckled, lowering her gaze for a moment. “I’m really hard to love.” She rephrased. “It takes a lot to deal with me. It’s not on purpose, but it’s the truth. When someone loves me, they either love me forever, or they hate me in the end; most tend to do the last. So when someone stay… I love my father, Mathrim. But, I’m loyal to those I love, and he's not nearly the dearest to my heart.”

Something passed across her eyes, a shadow, and Mat saw that thread of sadness again; a thread of pain. A pain so deep and real, that even a tiny thread, a tiny speck, made her seem strangely small.

Fragile.

The words came before he could command them.

“I don't think you're hard to love.” He said, his eyes widening slightly as he realized he'd spoken, and she turned to face him in surprise. “I think you're... complicated.” He laughed, remembering. “Funny, Rand talked about you to us — me and Perrin —, about when you were Selene. That was the word he used. Complicated. I thought you were married.” He murmured, and she laughed, a pleasant, amused sound, show made him smile too. “And I thought he just didn't know how to describe you, but I think it describes you pretty well. You are a complicated woman.”

Mat blinked, considering whether to say the rest of the words. 

But her eyes were still on him, the surprise evident on her face, almost as if the words meant something and he decided he would say what he thought and nothing more.

“And women like you aren't easily understood. I actually think you're all a pain in the ass and that you all needs to understand as soon as possible that you do not control the fucking world and the people in it, so you can all stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, but I also think you are…” He paused, craning his neck slightly to look at her. The word came to mind like one of those battle tactics that were his, naturally ingrained in his mind, second nature. “Magnificent. You are a magnificent woman Lanfear, and I don't mean that physically or romantically or any shit like that.”

Lanfear tilted her head slightly, the wind catching strands of her hair and lifting them around her face. Her eyes, sharp and searching, softened in a way Mat hadn’t quite seen before — at least, not directed at him.

“Magnificent.” She repeated, like she was testing the word on her tongue. “You mean I am terrifying.”

Mat shrugged. “Well, yeah. That too.”

And she laughed. Not a calculated, sultry chuckle. A real laugh. Short, surprised, and the words Rand had used to describe her, in what seemed like so long ago now, made sense.

Soft when she wants to be, but daring most of the time.

“I forget, sometimes.” She said after a moment, her voice quieter. “What it’s like to speak with someone who doesn’t bow or flinch.”

“Well,” Mat said, rolling his shoulders, “that’s mostly because I’ve been cursed, blessed, and thrown into so many fucking messes that I’m not entirely sure what’s guts and what’s stupidity anymore.”

Lanfear gave him a look — amused, dangerous, interested.

Analytical.

“No… that's courage.” She stated after a time, still smiling at him. “You are a brave man, Mathrim Cauthon, and if you had been born when I was, in my Age, you would have been unstoppable.”

He smiled, strangely embarrassed by her words. It seemed to be another of her effects, Mat observed, to make people shy and self-conscious. He had seen the same thing happen to Egwene, in Cairhien, when she had taught her a new plot and she had tried to pretend that she was not eager to please her, to learn it and be recognized for it.

“Maybe I will be unstoppable in this Age.” Mat muttered, hands still shoved in his coat pockets, shrugging to appear unaffected. “Or maybe I’ll die horribly. Toss of the dice, isn’t it?”

“I'll toss the dice from now on.” She glanced at him again, that sly curve returning to her lips, but there was something softer behind her eyes now. “And I'll toss them at your favor.”

“Why?”

“Because I had a friend, once, and you remind me of him. In the first years, when he still wanted to live.” She murmured, and craned her neck back to look up at the sky. “A friend I loved very much; more than Lews, even, in a different way. And he loved me just as much. So I helped him get what he wanted, what he dreamed of, even though it hurt me to do it — even though It would leave me alone — because I loved him — love him — and I wanted him to stop suffering. It helped Rand too, so I knew it would be worth it for even more reasons and forced myself to do it.” She blinked, slowly, once, twice. “I helped him die, like he wanted to, and asked my father to let him be. To let him in peace. And he told me yes, but tortures him with life again.” She whispered. “Took his name from him, so he could tell me he hadn’t lied.”

Mat's eyes widened, the name springing to mind. Words she had spoken to Rand once, in a moment that were not allowed to be spoken of. 

He whispered.

“Ishamael.”

“You know him by that, yes, but his name was Elan.”  She breathed. “To me, he will always be Elan.”

She didn’t speak for a time. She seemed sad, Mat noticed; sad and broken, and for a second, something inside him longed to hug her. To hold her for a second. 

He didn’t.

“The world is gray, Mat, and I have walked in it with no intention of changing my color for a long time. Still do.” She stated, letting her eyes leave the sky to meet his again.“But I wore white once, and I embraced black for him.” She paused. “I walked with him through the darkness, and he never let me suffer alone facing with me anything I could not handle by myself. Everything , even life that he hated.” She blinked. “He never left me walk alone.”

She seemed very alone, he realized, as if her very existence proved the sincerity of her words.

Alone and small.

Alone, and small and very hurt, standing in white in a camp of death, and Mat told himself, at that moment, that he would help her get what she wanted.

Mat decided, right there and then, that he would help her, so Rand could take that frown from her face and make her laugh as she did him. 

So she could play that game with the world, that game that they both play, and win. 

“I embraced black, so that our pain would be balanced; so that there would be balance between the loneliness of life and the love that existed between us two. So that he wouldn't have to suffer life alone, and so that I wouldn't have to live mine for myself.” She blinked, fire and resolution and anger and power glowing in her eyes. “And for centuries, thousands of years, we did it. We did it, until eventually, in this life, we both got what we wanted. He got what he wanted, he finally managed to die and I won’t let anyone take that away from him.” She growled. “ That’s what changed; he stole something from me.”

Mat gave one step back when fury rose in her eyes, one decision made by his body before his mind had the chance to tell him to, but the anger who made it was not direct it to him and he knew that her father would regret his decision at the moment her words filled the space and the air.

“I embraced black for Elan Tredonai.” She stood firm again, her eyes burning with cold anger and fury. “So for Elan Tredonai, to grand him what he deserves, what he had already found and my father stole from him, I'm gonna embrace white again.” Her words were firm. “I’m going to toss that dice, play that father-daugther game, Mathrim, and I’m going to win.”

Chapter Text

Rand had already expected that they would not accept.

He had spent the last two months from the moment Lanfear had decided to speed-up with his plans and release him directly to the Empress Seachan planning exactly what he would do when they rejected it.

Yet, as Elayne snatched the paper from his hands, her eyes blazing, and the commotion erupted like fire through dry hay, Rand felt that old anger rise, voices rising one after another as the rulers of every nation and the leaders of the major forces of the Light poured into their tent on Merillor Field, refusing to sign a peace treaty, clinging to their borders and their own powers; he couldn’t help but feel that frustration and a touch of anger unfurling in his chest.

He would give everything to the world, including himself, and they couldn't be bothered to accept his borders as they were and prevent the chaos from wreaking havoc on the world he would practically risk his life for.

It was frustrating, and the louder the voices in the tent grew, the more he realized he was right to do what he had planned. The more the voices overlapped, the words spat out with fervor— rejection, suspicion, pride and arrogance disguised as righteousness — the more irritated he had become.

He had heard the words — ‘We cannot give land to the Seanchan.’ ‘The Saldeans will not accept this.’ ‘It gives the Aes Sedai too much power.’ — before, long before bringing the paper, before making the proposal real.

He already knew they would be said.

But none of that mattered ; not in the face of what I would see in a few nights. Not in the face of what it could happen in a few nights, and yet, two nights before the Last Battle, they still fought as if holding a crown was more important than living.

Rand clenched his fingers at his sides in thought, the thick fabric of his tunic creaking against his fist. It was a large tent, roomy enough to fit them all easily, and yet it felt small, stuffy. It hardly mattered who spoke anymore; he blinked; they were all saying the same thing.

No.

Even those he had trusted, he noticed, and turned his gaze to Elayne. She remained as fierce as ever, but she had also become just another crown that feared losing the throne beneath its feet; like all the others.

Like pigs in the mud.

Rand took a deep breath, blinking, feeling anger dance inside him — hot and bitter, a remnant of the Saidin which he had purified along with Nynaeve, Egwene, and Moiraine, but which was still brutal and dangerous; cutting.

He almost felt invisible, which was surprising, considering there were always a variety of eyes on him. All the time, except when he needed them. Maybe he should give a demonstration, Rand thought. Something to remind the men and women who were engaged in increasingly heated discussion as he stood at the front of the table that there was a reason they had all waited for him to exist so they could do something.

But he didn't trust himself to do so now, when the anger had bubbled up a bit more and reached his throat; the tension of the inevitable Last Battle was making him restless, making it difficult to control his emotions. Yes, he decided, it wouldn't be wise to speak his mind while the argument was at its height; it might end up further undermining what was already fragile.

He needed something, though.

Something to calm the politicians and bring back the man who lived in their skin.

Someone uttered a heated curse in the corner, and Rand put his thoughts aside to survey the mess unfolding before him.

“This is absurd.” Someone muttered. “Why should we accept a deal like this?” It was Darlin Sisnera, Rand finally connected the face to the name, King of Tear. “I understand that you want to leave a legacy, Rand, but this… this is extremely disadvantageous. We have no reason to accept it.”

Rand narrowed his eyes at him, letting him see exactly that anger that was stirring inside him, and it wasn't until the man took a step back that Rand turned his eyes to the others, to the center of the tent, and let his voice out.

“You don’t have a choice.” He said. “I stayed silent and let you speak your mind, all the prerequisites, the conditions you — all of you — wanted for you to fight, including what you wanted to add to  my legacy and in my fight. This is my condition.” Rand lifted his chin, his voice projecting. “If you refuse to sign the treaty, if you refuse the Dragon’s Peace, I will refuse to sacrifice myself to face the Dark One. I will refuse to fight .”

Chaos erupted around him in tripled strength, no longer whispers but almost screams, raised voices that refused to accept, that refused to accept his refusal as to what to do with his life, and Rand gritted his teeth to restrain himself from saying what he wanted in some very impolite phrases.

He would let them scream for a while, he decided.

Until he gets tired of it all and is forced to speak.

Until he was sure he wasn't going to leave them to sort out their own shit and go to do something much better than fight with a bunch of kings and queens who couldn't look beyond their own belly buttons; until he could talk without blowing someone head up.

He was still watching a man's face turn in angry words when he felt the change in the air about fifteen minutes later, when the chaos and commotion yet had not decreased.

Stronger now than it used to be.

She had abandoned that careful charade she had used to make herself appear a little weaker, to undermine her presence and her aura. Whether it had been anger or disappointment that had made her decide to no longer hide who she was and which side she was fighting for, Rand did not know, but the fact was that ever since that dream, ever since he had found Moridin in a dark cave and advised him to visit her, Lanfear had cast aside the mask.

It didn't surprise him that there was still one.

Contrary to what people might think about him when they saw him with her, Rand was not an idiot.

He knew that the only reason she was on their side, on the side of the Light, was because she loved him, wanted him with her, and that the only reason she was actively fighting the Dark One was because he had hurt her feelings by forcing Elan back to life.

She had told him that, one night, when she was away, doing things he had chosen not to ask about, but her presence had returned to its place in his dreams and they had spent a silent night on that same rock, confiding what they had not had time to say in person.

She wasn't a good person.

Rand doubted she would ever be.

She was selfish and cruel and power-hungry, but she was also so much more, and it was that other part he chose to think about. It was that other part — the woman who slept on his chest and pouted against the sun, who acknowledged his insecurities and helped him overcome them, who told him she loved him and proved it — in one way or another, or many ways — who had risked her own freedom for him — that tipped the scales.

But that other part was reserved for him, and when she realized that he wasn't going to abandon her if she took off the mask, when he proved to her that he loved her enough to accept her, to understand, slowly — very slowly — she had stopped pretending.

Moridin had been the final straw, and when the rage had flooded her from the inside out, she hadn't tried to hide what it did to her, what it did of her; her eyes had gleamed doubtfully only once — when she had returned with Mat, having dragged him from the Empress Seachan's hall — looking at him uncertainly, as if she expected him to change his mind, to call her a monster again and throw her away, and Rand had grabbed her hand and raised it to his lips and silently, with his eyes, told her to be what she was.

He knew.

He accepted.

And she understood.

And it wasn't hope, nor even joy, that made silence fall over the tent, but rather the power of her presence as she opened the tent's entrance, those thin fingers appearing first, the considerably long nails scraping against the dry material of the tent.

It was different, somehow, her presence, when she stopped minimizing it. Rand had wondered if it was her relationship with the Dark that made her power exude this way — an almost oppressive pressure, thick and heavy, that wrapped itself around the One Power she also carried in great measure, and made it something heavy and pungent, dangerous, almost threatening to swallow the air — or if it was the constant weight of the Sakarnen that made the power in her even more evident. 

She was powerful, Rand knew. 

He had always known. 

But somehow the aura she carried had become even thicker, more dangerous, more deadly in a strange way that wasn’t really aggressive, but violent .  Pure violence,  the One Power — and something more, something darker — spilling from her in waves that brushed against his skin like hot smoke, coiling and sliding with a mind of their own. He could feel it clinging to the walls, soaking into the floor; like a forge fire left to burn too long: heavy, choking, dangerous.

That much power in one body seemed wrong , somehow. 

A violation of nature. 

Something that should have burned the skin to be near. And yet she still pulled him, like a gravity too strong to ignore. Still that same Lanfear — impossibly beautiful, graceful in a way that looked effortless and cruel; even her beauty seemed sharpened by the force that spilled from her now —, still captivating him with a look, with the words of his name on her mouth.

A vessel too full. 

Not a woman, not entirely. 

Not a monster, either.

His.

The air twisting around her was violent and dangerous, and though he didn't feel scared, being used to it enough not to be impacted, the conversation slowly died away, falling silent as she took a firm, deliberately slow step inside, her hair falling over her shoulders and her eyes shining in that dangerous way.

Rand wanted to kiss her right then and there and then fall to his knees and thank her most enthusiastically for solving at least one of the countless problems he seemed forced to deal with.

Instead, he remained where he was, letting his hand rest on the wood of the table.

“Lady, I mean no offense,” Gregorin Panar murmured, the first to break the silence that had descended upon the tent, his eyes glancing over her briefly before dismissing her presence. “But this is a meeting of leaders and kings.” Lanfear raised an eyebrow at him, and Rand watched as the man stiffened his spine, his friendliness gone, his patience already strained by the long sequence of negotiation — negotiation where , Rand had wondered, because the main factor was him, and he would not negotiate anything beyond what he had already planned to accept. “So who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

“My wife.” Rand answered before she could, and his ears belatedly caught that someone else had already done so, Egwene’s voice echoing with a loud, firm, knowing ‘ That’s Lanfear ' over his; not loud enough to eclipse his words, and a second longer than his voice, but clear enough that both sentences were understood.

Rand felt, rather than saw, the air vibrate around him.

Realization slowly descended upon the tent and the men and women scattered about it; men and women who slowly turned their faces toward him, some hands flailing almost — almost — threatening to touch the air or grasp a sword in reaction to the words he had spoken.

Affirmed.

Not insinuated or suggested.

My wife.

It shouldn't have surprised them all that much after what she had done for him at Tar Valon, but Rand supposed not everyone had heard the details of what had happened — he strongly suspected that Egwene had a hand in it, the Aes Sedai having little interest in appearing weak or acknowledging that they could not, however true, control the Dragon.

A few pairs of eyes turned to him in a mixture of horror, betrayal and disbelief, and for a second he almost laughed; they could not accept that the Reborn Dragon would make a decision for himself, but they could all, simply, refuse to think about the world, to the detriment of their own political achievements.

Hypocrites, Rand almost said, if it weren't for the need to keep up appearances and good relations.

“You... got married?” Elayne asked, her voice trailing off.

Lanfear smiled at him, that slow, catlike, genuinely pleased smile she let out, that she only left him see, whenever he referred to her by her title. There had been no ceremony, nothing beyond that meeting in the highest tower of Tear, with his father watching as he stumbled over himself to tell her the words— to ask the word — but that ring of silver and power still shone on her finger, a beautiful gemstone that appeared before her, every time she opened a door as she had just done.

Rand had made it his goal to introduce her, to reference her, as much as he could in that way before he walked to his death, and every time he did so in front of her, she would grace him with a smile like that.

She took a step closer, and someone made a quick, fearful murmur, but Rand did nothing but squeeze his hand on the edge of the table with more force and make space for her to position herself next to him.

The tension that had been rumbling around the tent since before, marked by arrogance, pride, and an unwillingness to give in, grew as she slowly — very slowly — did so, her dress dragging on the floor as she moved, and Rand felt it crystallize into something much more tangible.

Fear.

Rand wondered if she was actively trying to scare them. Probably not; she seemed too relaxed for that, shuffling toward him in a relaxed, easy stride. It was just her, he supposed.

Perhaps, for a stranger, Rand considered, that aura were even heavier than he could see. 

It was Moiraine who broke the tension, slowly beginning to speak, articulating arguments and recalling prophecies, and Rand realized belatedly that she had come with Lanfear. The Aes Sedai had accompanied her somewhere neither of them had felt it important to share, something that had surprised him in itself; though Moiraine feared her enough to never turn her back on her, always glancing at her from the corners of her eyes and holding her breath when she looked directly at her, somehow, after saving him in Tar Valon, Lanfear seemed to have won  something in Moiraine's eyes.

Something that made her believe she was helping .

That she was fighting alongside them.

Not trust, Moiraine was too smart for that, but something.

Enough that she actually listened when Lanfear suggested — she had a habit of suggesting things that she already knew , and that they had discovered it was best not to ask where knowledge came from — something to her, pointing out places where she ended up, to the displeasure of some — Lan — in one way or another, proving that Moiraine did indeed need to be there.

It wasn’t trust, and it wasn’t an alliance, but it was something, and Rand almost thought that if there hadn’t been history between them — that threat of death hanging between them, that silent revenge Moiraine wisely remembered she might want to exact — it might have been.

They were, after all, tremendously similar.

Two strong, intelligent and powerful women, resilient and unstoppable in their goals, differing only in that, unlike Moiraine, Lanfear did not usually stick to precepts and morality to get what she wanted.

Rand raised an eyebrow at the woman in question in a silent question — Did you bring her on purpose? — , and she raised hers in just as silent a response.

Obviously.

Rand smiled, thin and quick, pleased, his hand leaving the edge of the table to find her waist, anchoring himself to her, anchoring her to him. The movement caught a few eyes, he noticed, people scattered around the tent watching them in silence, none brave enough to speak out loud, but their eyes were lined with disapproval. A while ago, Rand blinked, maybe it had gotten to him. Maybe that familiar judgment had started in his mind, questioning what the hell he was doing, what he was thinking, thinking he could love a Forsaken.

Too much time had passed.

Too much time had passed, and whether it was insanity or not, Rand didn’t care enough to question what he felt. To question what it meant to love her, even if part of him knew it probably made him a different man than he’d hoped to be.

It didn't really matter. 

The world would come to an end very soon, one way or another.

The chaos had been slowly tamed by the Aes Sedai pacing back and forth, stating word after word — all the right words, as only she could —, Rand realized and sighed as the peace treaty, the Dragon's Peace, was finally covered in signatures.

The first to rise in agreement had been Berelain, First of Mayene, followed soon by the rulers of the nations of The Border and Alliandre Maritha Kigarin, Queen of Bets, but it was the raised hand of Perrin Aybara, Regent of the Two Rivers in the name of the Dragon Reborn, which had made Rand smile. He had met him again at Merrilor’s Field two weeks ago, and his heart had been warmed by the way that, even as he had clearly become a leader of respect and skill, Perrin still had that same familiar, knowing look, deep in the eyes of a boy from Two Rivers.

He had made an effort not to cry, seeing him again after so long, and had, in the end, managed to push the urge away, but the feeling of joy and respect still remained real and the same inside his chest when he saw that broad, strong hand rise.

Egwene had refused for a long time.

Rand had squeezed Lanfear’s hand so tightly where it lay, now clasped in his, that for a second he had worried he might hurt her. Egwene had let her eyes wander over the gesture as she tried in various ways to irritate him, to upset his equilibrium and undermine his confidence and influence with the other rulers, and Rand wondered if she had seen the gesture for what it was, or if she had believed it to be an attempt on his part for him to stay in control.

The truth was, with every word she’d said, every attempt to shake him, to expose some hint of doubt that she could exploit, Lanfear had tensed her body against his more, like a snake preparing to strike. He’d grabbed her hand in his the moment she’d begun to tense her body forward, her eyes narrowing slowly, and he’d squeezed her fingers tight enough to snap, a silent plea for her to let him have his way, even when he’d been offended by those before him.

She had gritted her teeth tightly, and Egwene had continued talking until, after Moiraine had muttered a couple more tidbits of information — she, Rand was sure, had interpreted the movement for what it was; his wife was a violent woman and short of patience, and she at least knew better than to test it —, finally, she had established that, in exchange for her signature, she would receive custody of the Seals of the Dark prison.

Rand had agreed, postponing the other battle that would come from it, and successively, all her allies followed suit, including Gregorin , Regent of Illian, Darlin, and the representatives of Murandy and Atha'an Miere.

Elayne had remained resolute in her opposition until she received command of the armies for the Last Battle and some guarantees about the Seanchan. The first part had brought something to his wife’s eyes, something dangerous and knowing that Rand told himself he would ask about later, and the second part had required a long, drawn-out conversation with the Empress Seachan — whom Mat had tried, as subtly as possible, to influence — and which had yielded no positive result until Lanfear had finally moved from where she was still resting against Rand’s arm and pulled up a chair across from the Empress.

Rand, like the rest of the people scattered around the tent, had waited for words, all tensing up.

There had been none other than a polite, curt “Tuon” and a much warmer, friendlier “Mathrim” — whom she had graced with a smile — and after a long period of Lanfear sitting facing the Empress, her hands clasped on her crossed knees and her back propped against the back of the chair, the air getting more tense by the second, the dark skin of the woman in front of her starting to lose color as Lanfear stared at her, she had agreed in exchange to keep all the lands they currently owned on that side of the Ocean Aryth, with a later appendix to be developed between them and the White Tower regarding channelings, which Rand decided he didn't need — or want — to know.

He had also decided that he would not ask what Lanfear had suggested to the Empress while she was looking her in the eyes, nor whether if it was fear, respect or advantage that had made her accept.

He had also silently thanked Aviendha, but had chosen not to point out the vision she had presented to him the day before, when he had walked through the Field of Melliror, opting only to include the Aiel in the peace treaty, leaving them with a final note from his Car'a'Carn to ensure the enforcement of peace should any nation feel inclined, — in times to come when his presence would certainly not be available — to test the limits of the Dragon's legacy, serving him and accompanying him into battle one last time as protectors of peace.

Rand had resisted the urge to sit down on the floor when all the signatures were collected and cry. There was no time to cry, and he forced himself to stand and say goodbye as graciously as he could when his patience and willingness had already been tested to the limit by those who would fight alongside him and in his name — in the name of the Light.

It wasn't until the last of them moved to leave the tent that Rand spoke.

“Perrin, if you have a moment.” He called, as the man was about to head out of the tent with the others; Rand blinked at him as he turned, his brow furrowed slightly, those golden eyes shining. There was no time to cry, Rand decided, but there were still promises to be kept, and even though the weariness of the day was weighing him down, that part of him — that young, passionate part —  still brightened and excited about the prospect. “I want to introduce you to someone.”

Perrin smiled, slowly stepping forward and toward him; and Rand took the distance in slow strides, Lanfear following, her hand tangled in his as they moved, her fingers curled around his. Rand released them slowly as he approached his friend, meeting him halfway, letting his hand fall around her waist and pulling her slightly forward, her back pressing lightly against his chest.

“Lanfear, this is Perrin Aybara. One of my dearest friends from Two Rivers; he, Mat, and I grew up together. I told you about him.” She nodded in agreement, giving Perrin one of those perfectly, adorably, charmingly dangerous smiles; he smiled back at her in response even as something — a confused recognition of something he’d seen in her eyes — flashed in those golden ones. “Perrin… This is Lanfear. But for you…” Rand couldn’t help the smile; that small glimmer of happiness and satisfaction spreading through his chest at the prospect of saying the words. Across from him, Perrin was starting to frown slightly, no doubt confused by how ecstatic he seemed over something so simple, and Rand didn’t hide the smile, letting it grow even wider, pulling the woman in his arm closer to him. “For you… This is Selene.”

Perrin froze where he was, surprise.

It wasn’t fear — though the name Lanfear carried enough weight to calm most men’s blood —, Rand knew him well enough to recognize the gleam in his eyes for what it was: shock. His eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded her, his brows rising.

“You…” He began, his voice low, husky, slightly carried by that ancient instinct that was part of him — of all of them — now. “Rand told us about you.” He murmured, reaffirming the words, and Rand lowered his gaze to the floor slightly as Lanfear pinched his hip playfully, his face burning slightly as he moved, looking up to see that glint of satisfaction, teasing, and playfulness in her eyes. “Spoken like you were a dream.”

“It was.” Rand said, taking a small step forward and squaring his shoulders. It was true, he supposed; it had been a dream, when he had whispered her name at that tavern table, talked about what he wanted to live with her, even though, at that moment, it was impossible. “She is .”

“You’re different than I imagined.” Perrin cocked his head to the side, silently assessing her. Lanfear raised an eyebrow at him in response, and he smiled, a brief, familiar smile. “I’ve heard about you. About the woman who runs with the moon.”

Lanfear smiled at the title, a smile Perrin couldn’t quite place — not exactly fondness, not exactly pride, but something older, deeper — and Rand wondered briefly how many names she actually had.

“The woman who runs with the moon.” She repeated softly, almost reverently, before tilting her head slightly in recognition. “A poetic title. Unusual, wouldn’t you say?!”

“The children of the field know a wolf when they see one.” Perrin said, without looking away, with that steady calm that had been part of him since he had learned to control what was inside him. His golden eyes gleamed slightly. “And they know when an ancient creature decides to leave the forest and walk among men.”

“Well said.” Lanfear murmured, bowing slightly, almost in greeting, her usual teasing softened by something more sincere — perhaps recognition — but the danger, the power, still emanating from her. “Are you a son of the field Perrin Aybara, or are you a wolf?”

Perrin didn’t answer right away. The silence between them stretched like a rope about to snap, and Rand felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. Lanfear wasn’t trying to be hostile — at least not in the usual way — but there was something in her question that bit, that probed deeper than ordinary words should have been able to reach; curiosity, Rand blinked, mixed with something else. Something more knowledgeable. More ancient.

Perrin finally spoke, his voice deep, drawling, but without hesitation.

“I am both.” He said, those golden eyes blazing. “I am a son of the field…and a wolf too. I chose to be neither, but I chose to accept what I am. And fight with it.” His eyes settled on her, determined. “Are you the moon, or the huntress?”

Rand saw the way her lips spread into that familiar smile; the one that told him she was pleased. Lanfear’s smile deepened, slow and knowing, like a predator acknowledging kin.

“Clever wolf.” She murmured, tilting her head. “You do see more than most.”

Perrin’s golden eyes flickered to Rand, searching for confirmation — or perhaps warning — but Rand only nodded, his grip tightening slightly around Lanfear’s waist. 

Trust me , the gesture said. 

Trust me with her, like you trust me with the world.

He nodded, slowly, and then Rand saw perfectly well the way his eyes softened, a little at a time.

“Well… if we are in the spirit of introductions.” He smiled. “I guess I should introduce you to my wife."

Rand blinked slowly. He wasn’t surprised; he’d heard enough to know that Perrin had gotten married. Still, when Perrin turned and waved his hand to someone outside the tent, Rand couldn’t help but feel curious. A moment later, the doorway was raised, and Rand saw the woman enter, striding forward, proud, yet short enough that the contrast between her and Perrin was pleasantly amusing; Saldaean, Rand knew. Her eyes, a deep brown, flicked straight to Perrin before sliding to Rand, and she gave him a tight, respectful curtsy.

“Faile Bashere.” She introduced herself, her voice firm, proud. “Wife of Perrin Aybara. And loyal to him. Therefore, loyal to you.”

She had the same look his father had, Rand realized, when he faced something unfair. The same determination Egwene had, but without the coldness. And her presence, despite her youth, filled the tent as if it were made of stone and steel at the same time.

He took a step forward.

“It’s an honor, Faile.” Rand said, placing his hand over his heart, and he meant it. “If he chose you…then I don’t need any more assurances.”

She smiled at him.

“He didn’t have much of a choice,” she joked. “But I let him think he did.”

Perrin laughed, and Rand had barely opened his lips to do the same when, beside him, Lanfear made one of those pleased little noises, drawing his gaze; she sighed and murmured something like “I like her” when he did so, and Rand raised an eyebrow.

“You met her five seconds ago.”

“I am an excellent judge of character.”

Rand raised his eyebrow so high in response to that, that she rolled her eyes at him, smiling; it was, really, absurd, he laughed. Perrin exhaled where he was, whatever tension he felt easing from his shoulders, and Rand wondered if it had been his quick acceptance of Faile, or the way Lanfear had responded to him, falling into that old partnership that was theirs and forgetting the world, even in such a quick conversation as that.

“Faile, this is… Lanfear.” The name felt foreign on Perrin’s tongue, but he said it anyway. Faile’s eyebrows rose, but she schooled her expression quickly. Not quickly enough for Rand to miss the surprise flashing in her eyes, the shock and disbelief buried quickly. “Rand’s wife.”

She stepped forward, posture straight. 

“You’re not what I expected. From the legends.”

Lanfear’s smirk was razor-thin. 

“Most legends watered me down.”

“That’s an understanding.” She laughed, tiny and slow. “They say you are powerful, uncontrollable dangerous and evil. Yet here you stand.” Faile countered. “Fighting for the Light.”

“Fighting for Rand.” Lanfear’s fingers brushed Rand’s arm, possessive and tender all at once. “The rest is… collateral .”

Rand winced. 

“ Lanfear .”

“Fine.” She sighed, rolling her eyes. “For him, and for some others reasons. Happy?”

He smiled at her.

“Tremendously.

Perrin crossed his arms where he was. 

“Reasons like power? Revenge?”

Lanfear’s smile vanished. The air grew heavier, thick with the weight of the unspoken — the Dark One’s betrayal in what he knew to be an absurdity to any but her, the action of a father and a wounded daughter; Elan. The anger that still lived in her chest. Rand felt her fingers dig into his side, a silent plea for control, a request for him to intervene if he didn't want to test her methods.

“Perrin.” Rand said quietly, and it wasn’t an order, but his voice had dropped a little lower; to that tone that wasn’t quite so welcoming. He was a friend, he knew, the best of friends, but Lanfear was Lanfear, and though he wanted him to like her, she would still come first to him if he didn’t. “She’s here. She won’t leave and I will never ask her to do it. She’s mine. That’s what matters.”

“Love makes fools and heroes of us all.” Faile murmured, not expecting a reaction from her husband. Her voice was softer, almost understanding, interrupting him before Perrin could speak, but her eyes were sharp, keen, assessing danger for what it might be and Rand decided that Lanfear was right. He liked her too. She was smart. Smart enough to recognize the danger emanating from the woman beside him, even when she was smiling at them. At him. “And if Rand trusts you, then so do we.”

“I really don't care if you do.” She shrugged. “Don’t expect me to weep over it.”

Perrin chuckled, the sound rough but warm. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Rand exhaled, relief flooding his chest. This — this was what he’d wanted. Not just signatures on a treaty, but this: his oldest friend and the woman he loved, standing together without bloodshed or anger. It was more than he’d dared hope for.

Then Faile’s eyes narrowed. “But if you hurt him —”

“Oh, don’t even try it. You are not a threat bigger enough to start to sustain that. Don't try to bite off more than you can chew, girl.” Lanfear’s laughter cut her off, sharp and bright. “Besides, If I wanted him dead, he’d have died a long time ago.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper only they could hear. “But worry not. I’ve claimed him. And what’s mine stays mine.”

“Mierin.” Rand sighed, groaned. “Must you always —”

“Yes.” She kissed his cheek, a provocative habit that came from a different identity, her hand circling his waist, his arm hanging over her neck as she nuzzled a little deeper into his chest, and then smirked at Faile. “You understand, don’t you?”

It sounded like a threat, even though she made it sound like a question. Not really many answers left for her to choose. Faile’s lips twitched. 

“I do.”

“Mate…” Perrin clapped Rand on the shoulder, shaking his head. “You really do have a type.”

Rand opened his mouth to protest, but Lanfear beat him to it.

“Mysterious, dangerous, and devastatingly beautiful?” 

“More like batshit crazy, insanely disturbing, and a scary, dangerous, stuck-up tyrant.” Mat’s sharp, knowing voice cut through the air, and Rand turned slightly to the side to watch him enter the tent, catching out of the corner of his eye the smile that spread across the lips of the woman in his arms — big and wide and familiar. “Have you killed anyone in the time I’ve been away, Lanfear, my dear?”

“Unfortunately not.” She purred at him, pulling away from Rand’s embrace slightly to face him, pushing herself slightly against the table, her lips in that teasing little smile. “But I can always start with you.”

He stopped where he was, tilting his head slightly to the side in assessment.

“You know, it's a lot less fun when you say this kind of things and I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

Rand felt his own smile double in size as Lanfear threw back her head and laughed, a real, honest laugh, loud, the sound ringing in his ears. He had expected that whatever semblance of friendship there had been between Mat and her would have been extinguished after she had dragged him away from his own wife without explanation, but surprisingly, it seemed that whatever that little flame was — that possibility of a real friendship between the two — had, in fact, increased,  and she had spent the last two months dragging Mat around, planning things that he preferred not to know.

He’d never actually asked if she’d continued to visit him in his dreams after that first time or if that ease between them had developed after that encounter in Tear. It didn’t really matter, he’d decided. If she did, he trusted her enough to know it wouldn’t be to harm either of them; and he trusted her enough not to be jealous of their closeness. It made sense that they’d get along. When she wasn’t actively trying to kill someone, Lanfear was positively entertaining, and Rand had known the first time he’d seen them together that she and Mat shared that dangerously troubling sense of humor of his.

“Don’t worry, Mathrim.” She purred at him, her eyes shining. “It would be too much work to explain to Rand why I killed you, so you’re perfectly safe until he’s… absent .”

“You’re a horrible person.” Mat huffed, already approaching her, Lanfear glaring at him, smiling as he did so. Rand tried not to smile as she lifted a hand, poking his nose, and Mat scowled at her, suitably affronted by the gesture. “Tuon would like you to know that she’s sharpening a rather large knife to stick into your guts and skin you.”

Lanfear rolled her eyes at him.

“Tell your dear wife, she’ll have to be born again to come remotely close to me with that.” She replied, bored, as she reached for the wine jug in the center of the table, the ring glinting on her slender finger. “ And tell her that I have no interest in wrapping you in my sheets, so she can stop imagining it.” Mat raised his eyebrow at her in surprise, and she twitched her lips like a cat. Rand decided it wasn't really a surprise that Tuon would think so. His wife was a very  seductive woman, and he himself had been jealous of those first contacts between them, before he realized what she saw in him. Who she saw in him. It was only logical that she would consider the possibility that Lanfear was interested in more than just Mat’s mind and friendship; he was, after all, a handsome man and very, very clever. But, Rand smiled, his wife was a woman as passionate as she was seductive, and it was only for him that her eyes shone, burning in that lovely, sinful way. “For someone who doesn’t love you yet, Mathrim, your lovely wife is quite jealous. She has adorable dreams .”

Mat frowned, a little alarmed.

“She has what ?”

Lanfear ignored him momentarily, refilling her glass with the wine that had been set out for the previous meeting, her fingers tapping against the glass. Rand tried not to notice the way the movement had elongated her neck, clearly visible in the collar of her dress.

“Dreams.” She repeated, raising the glass to her lips. “Deep. Detailed. And completely wrong, I must say. I would go to the trouble of entering her dreams to clarify them, but…” She sighed, tilting her head to the side. “… I really don’t care.”

“Why the hell are you spying on my wife’s dreams?”

“Oh, come on. I only stumble into her dreams now and then.” Lanfear took a small sip of wine, then looked at Mat over the rim of his glass, eyes shining, leaning his shoulders slightly against the chair, his arm brushing Rand’s chest as he did so. “She has an interesting mind and I’m naturally curious. Few people dream of military strategy and stabbing their own husband in the same night. You might consider sleeping with your eyes open.”

“I already sleep with my eyes open, thank you.” Mat snorted. “Kind of hard not to with my wife threatening to poison me with a spoon before going to bed.”

“She’s tried that in three different dreams.” She laughed. “In one of them, you were a rat.”

“Wonderful.” Mat gave a theatrical gyration with his arms, an exasperated sigh on his lips. “Perfect. There’s no more wine in there, is there?”

Had, and Rand watched with strange delight as Lanfear held out a glass to him and he moved a little closer to her. Like a fly caught in a spider’s web, except Mat was far from an innocent fly, and Lanfear had no — he could say that for sure now; he knew her well enough to know he was right — intention to kill him by getting him caught up in her.

“She is, however, despite all her questioning and slightly murderous tendencies, quite possessive of you. She seems to think I'm interested in more than just that adorably clever mind of yours, and half the time she kills you in her dreams, we were doing quite a mess, and she kills me too out of spite, jealous and anger.” She smiled at him, something dangerous, and then something softer. “Almost, almost as if she didn’t want to share you…” She winked at him, raising the glass to her lips. “Don’t you find that interesting, Mathrim?!”

His lips spread into that familiar, winning smile, and Rand found himself smiling, leaning his hip against the table to watch as Mat pecked his wife and waited to be pecked again.

“ I am winning her over, aren’t I?!” He laughed, smug and pleased. “Maybe I don’t even need that island of yours… I certainly shouldn’t trust what comes out of your mouth.” He winked at her. “You are the most dangerous woman in the world, after all. Surely there are safer ways to win my wife than following your instructions.”

“Oh, poor boy, you really don’t know what’s good in life, do you?!” Lanfear replied sweetly, crossing one leg over the other with sharp elegance, pushing her face closer to his. The movement made her back appear more contoured, and Rand found himself reaching out before he realized it, almost letting it rest on her back before he realized it and took it back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I, for a fact, am an excellent company. Clever, provocative, visually stunning…”

“And extremely humble.” Mat added.

“Now, Mat, that’s a polite conversation we are having; no need to accuse me of such a thing.” She scoffed, smiling at him, genuinely amused. “But if you don’t want to find that island, that’s fine with me… though, I must say, it’s still as beautiful as it ever was.”

Mat's eyes widened where he stood, and Rand didn't realize he had laughed out loud until Perrin looked at him in surprise, too caught up in the two figures arguing around the table.

“Wait, you know where it is?!”

“I might...”

“So?!” He dropped a hand on his waist, exasperated. “Where the hell is it?!”

“Now, would you trust the instructions of the most dangerous woman in the world ?!” She blinked at him. “Dangerous thing.”

“ Lanfear! ”

Lanfear smiled even wider at him, leaning up on her elbow to look at him.

“Yes?”

“Light, you are horrible .” Mat muttered, rubbing his hand over his forehead, his finger lightly pushing his black hat up. “Would you be so kind as to tell me where to find this supposed island to help me win my lovely lady wife love?” He blinked at her. “… Please?!”

Lanfear tapped the tip of her wineglass against her lips, looking at him almost as if she were actually considering what to do. As if she were considering something big and dangerous. Rand knew that look, and he supposed that somehow Mat did too, the man closing his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest, shaking his head from side to side slowly.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“That depends.” Lanfear shrugged, her delicate shoulders rising in a gesture of mock innocence. Rand blinked slowly where he stood; she really was a horrible person, he snorted a laugh. “What will you give me in return?”

“What could you possibly want from me?” Mat narrowed his eyes where he stood, suspicious, and Rand finally took a step closer, curious, his hand resting gently against his wife’s shoulder. “I have nothing that would be of interest to you or you would have already found a way to make me give it to you.” He continued, suspicious and curious. “You’re not exactly the type to asks. ”

“Perhaps.” Lanfear shrugged and smiled at him. “But there is something I want… Something that can only be given.” She purred, twisting the words as if to ask for a secret, and for an instant, Rand almost felt the tingle of jealousy rise within him, before it was snuffed out and buried hard. “I want one favor, Mathrim. One single promise that when I ask, you won’t say no. Nothing more.”

Mat stood where he was, and Rand watched silently as the meaning of her words, of what she wanted, sank into his mind. It wasn’t the favor that made him tense, Rand knew, it was the promise. A promise made by Mathrin Cauthon was worth more than much. He was a man of his word, Rand knew, and when he promised something, he did everything he could to keep it.

“Is that all?” Mat asked, his voice low. But there was something behind the lightness, clear enough for Rand to see perfectly — keen caution, aware of any trap he might be walking into.

“That’s all,” she replied. “A single promise, Mathrim. A single favor, which I will ask only once. And you, for honor, friendship, and the man who stands by my side, will not say no.”

Lanfear tilted her head, feline, fascinating, a mischievous glint in her eyes that didn’t hide the real danger behind it. His wife really was beyond compare, Rand bit back a smile. This little game between them wasn’t new; it had begun that first meeting in Tear, when she’d saved his life — or maybe even earlier; the first time she’d visited his dreams, perhaps — and Rand knew very well that, though neither of them would put it into words, there was an interest, that typical desire of two conquerors, to win.

Mat sighed, looking up at the tent ceiling, weighing the possibilities, Rand knew, then finally turned his eyes to her again.

“A promise.” He repeated. “Nothing that will put me at risk of death. Or make me an enemy of my wife. Nothing absurd and nothing evil.” He extended his index finger toward her. “And if it involves any kind of otherworldly being like the damned Aelfinn’s, or the damned Aes Sedai’s, I will charge something in return.”

Lanfear smiled. Not the teasing smile, not the dangerous smile — though both were there, beneath the surface — but a satisfied, genuine smile that Rand recognized clearly. It was the same smile she wore when she was playing a game she knew she had already won; the same smile she wore when she teased him until he did exactly what she wanted, thinking he was doing the opposite. She slowly turned the glass in her hands before nodding once.

“Done.” She said, her voice firm and satisfied. “One day, I will ask something. And you will give it to me. A favor, limited to your terms, sworn in the name of the friendship you have with Rand and the debt I have chosen to acknowledge.” She leaned forward slightly, smiling at him. “Sealed?”

Mat hesitated for a second before accepting the hand she held out to him.

“Sealed.” He stated, much more firmly than Rand would have guessed he felt, given the way he seemed to be signing a pact directly with the dark. “Now can you tell me where the damn island is?”

She didn’t answer, choosing to set her glass on the table and push herself forward slightly in her chair, pushing the skirt of her dress down. Rand watched silently as, still silent where he stood, a few feet away from the table and them, Perrin watched the movement, those golden eyes following her as she moved.

He supposed it looked odd, Rand realized.

That she and Mat seemed to have such a well-formulated camaraderie when it was no secret that Mat disliked Aes Sedai and especially the One Power, and she was her own. It was undeniable, however, that there was a… friendship, a strange feeling between them. Something that wasn't really friendship, but it wasn't animosity or seriousness either. The way she reacted to Mat became even more evident after the little contact between her and Perrin; where there had been coldness and a touch of distrust with the golden-eyed man, with Mat there was warmth, even a silent respect.

Rand watched, half-enchanted, as she moved closer to the man in question, pulling out a map of somewhere he didn't even know where it was and then placing it on the table, those thin fingers gripping Mat's hand to guide her over the map.

“You’ll need to pass south of the Aryth Sea, until you almost reach the Mad Lands, about 10,000 kilometers east of Seachan.” She murmured, indicating the place with her fingers. “There’s no exact location, that part you’ll have to figure out for yourself, but if you get this far.” She lightly touched a vague spot in the center of the map, in what looked like a void surrounded by mountains and dense jungles and lots, lots of water. “You will start to feel a…itch, so to speak.”

Mat arched a skeptical eyebrow, but there was something in his eyes — that old, almost childlike curiosity — that Rand knew all too well; she was right, he blinked, as he had known she had been when he first said it. He was indeed a conqueror. Not just of war and battle, but of more. Much more.

“There’s some remnant of One Power there, and that necklace of yours will probably start to make your skin itchy.” She explained, though he hadn’t asked in words, waving a hand between them. “The area near the Mad Lands is volcanic terrain, so there’s a good chance the seas will be quite rough; it’s probably best if you choose a crew made up of Sea Folk.”

“Perfect.” Mat murmured, his eyes still fixed on the dot on the map as if he could see it clearly. “A cursed island, in unstable territory, with violent seas and mystical side effects. It can only be a good thing.”

Lanfear smiled broadly at him.

“Think of it as a test.” She said, her voice full of that familiar teasing edge. “If you can get there alive, maybe you can survive your marriage to Fortuona.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, aren’t you?! Should never have made you like me.” He replied, still staring at the map, but Rand noticed that his tone no longer held the bitter sarcasm it had before — there was a note of expectation now. “Anything else?”

Mat was already plotting routes in his mind, adjusting deadlines, considering crews.

“I would recommend taking someone versed in the One Power,” Lanfear continued. “… Or someone with a lot of luck.” She finished with a lopsided smile, her gaze still fixed on Mat, who rolled his eyes hard. “You never know what you might find in places like these, Mathrim, and you are looking for it."

Mat looked up at her slowly, his finger still on the dot on the map, and the silence that fell between them was unexpectedly tense, broken only by the soft clink of the glass that Lanfear was absently turning between his fingers, her gaze still fixed on him.

“You know what’s there, don’t you?” Mat asked, his voice lower, almost a whisper. “You’re not sending me to some random island. It’s not just a challenge.”

“Of course I know.” Lanfear tilted her head, her hair flowing like silk over one shoulder, and then shrugged. “But if I told you, there would be no challenge. There would be no conquest. And you wouldn't want to go if it wasn't to achieve something new and great.”

Rand frowned, taking a slow step closer.

“Mierin—”

“Oh, we both know he’s going to go, Rand.” She interrupted, turning slightly to look at him and smile, almost rolling her eyes at him fondly. “You know he will. It’s his nature. And frankly…” Her gaze slid back to Mat, smile on her lips. “I kind of want to know if he can.”

Mat was silent for long seconds, his eyes still glued to the map in front of him. Rand saw the light slowly grow in his eyes, no longer just curiosity and hunger for conquest, but that spark that appeared whenever Mat Cauthon felt he was about to stumble upon something bigger than himself — and, therefore, impossible to resist.

He said finally, without taking his eyes off the map.

“You’re a manipulative bitch, you know that?”

She laughed.

“Since long before you were born, Mathrim.”

“Well, you know that if I go to the end of the world, past volcanic seas, sea monsters, magical storms and who knows what else… and find absolutely nothing but a wet rock…” He pointed his index finger at her in warning. “I’m going to be very, very pissed off at you.”

She rolled her eyes at him, dismissing his words, but Rand still saw the small smile on her lips. This one was sincerer, he recognized, not mocking, but genuinely sweet, something soft.

“I’ll give you something.” She muttered after a while, her hand moving through the air quickly, a quick weave of silver flashing before disappearing again. The coin in her hand was made of silver, and it glowed brightly as she pushed it over the map. “An incentive… Because I want to see you conquer this Age, Mathrin Cauthon.” She purred at him, and Mat looked up from the map, surprise shining in his eyes before something else entered and took its place. “And because I am, indeed, quite magnificent.”

Recognition.  

Rand quickly wondered what he recognized in her words.

Whether she had said them before and was repeating them now, or whether he was the one who had said them.

“This will protect you just once.” She said, thrusting the coin into his hands. It was polished silver, Rand noted, and on one side a crescent moon glowed; on the other, the symbol of the ancient Aes Sedai, of the Age of Legends, shone whole. Unbroken. “No matter what it is. No matter where you are. It will get you out of danger. It will bring you back, if you wish to return; just hold it tight and think about where you want to go. Use it wisely .” She stressed, her lips stretching into that dangerous smile. “I won’t save your ass if you use it at the wrong time.”

This time, it was he who rolled his eyes at her, and Rand let himself feel that comfortable warmth as he straightened slightly, moving a little closer to her, comfortable and slightly excited. It was good, he blinked, to be able to find a moment like this, even where they were. With the world as it was. 

With what would begin the next morning, and what might be the last morning many would ever see.

“You know what?! I'm going to find this island.” Mat smiled at her — for real this time, a full smile, the kind that reminded Rand of when they were all kids sitting around a campfire, discussing frivolous things he now envied — adjusting his hat in a teasing, flirtatious motion. “And when I do, I’m going to bring something for you.”

Lanfear arched her eyebrow, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

“Something?”

“Something worthy of you.” He replied, shifting his weight back, arms crossed over his chest, eyes shining. “Perhaps an ancient crown. Or some hidden treasure. Something big. Powerful.”

Her laugh came like a crack: soft, real, and light.

“And if I like what you bring me?” 

“Then maybe I’ll finally take that smug look from your pretty face.” Mat said, and his eyes met hers, neither threatening nor submissive — just alive; almost happy. “What do you say, Lanfear? You’re up to the challenge?!”

Equal.

It wasn't the first time he had seen it, but it was the time he had seen it most clearly, and Rand couldn't resist moving closer, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her lightly against his chest, delighting in what he saw so clearly between the friend he loved and the woman he adored.

Mutual respect.

Care , in a way.

A veiled understanding, an alliance built between provocations.

Lanfear shrugged.

“It better be good, Mathrim.” She said, her fingertips still touching the map, but her head resting peacefully on his chest. “I have high standards, and if it’s not…” She glanced at him, a half smile on her lips. “I’m going to be very, very disappointed.”

“Please.” Mat scoffed, tucking the map into his coat. “Have I ever disappointed you?!”

Lanfear didn’t answer, blinking at him knowingly, that wide smile on her lips. An affirmation that he was right. That somehow, in whatever previous arrangements they had made and were still doing, he hadn’t, in fact, let her down once.

Rand smiled, grabbing the remaining wine on the table and pulling out a glass for himself, two others for Perrin and Faile. He offered the glasses with a light gesture, pushing them across the table and toward the two shadows who watched the entire exchange in silence, a little further away from the table.

For a second, Rand let himself breathe and swallow the silence in the tent as the two of them approached, curling their fingers over their cups. Outside the canvas, the sounds of the camp still vibrated in the distant background — footsteps, steel being sharpened, voices being lowered — but here, for a brief moment, Rand let himself enjoy their encounter.

Three friends brought together not by war, or necessity, or fate.

By choice.

For friendship.

For love.

Her weight was comforting against his chest, her hair still smelling the same, making it feel like another place, another time, and Rand lowered his head lightly against hers, breathing in her scent, his left arm tightening lightly around her waist.

A war tent was not a tavern, Rand smiled, but it worked.

A promise kept, he winked, to two boys from Two Rivers.

It was enough.

Rand smiled. It was a lot. It was so much. And maybe it would be the last time.

It was enough . 

The silence that fell after the exchange of glasses was peaceful, not awkward. Each of them seemed to know — without needing to say it — that there wasn’t much more to be said. So, when it did, it was Perrin who broke it, his deep voice cutting through the air with a sweetness Rand hadn’t expected.

“Do you remember that summer?” Perrin asked, breaking the silence, his voice deep but sweet in a strange way that was familiar; his gaze was fixed on the wooden table, Rand noticed, not looking directly at anyone. “The one where we snuck into the old windmill, trying to see who could stay in there the longest before the bats started flying?”

Mat huffed out a laugh, shaking his head.

“You ran away in less than five minutes.”

“I ran away because you threw flour in my face and said it was the bones of a dead child.”

“That was a good scare.” Mat smiled smugly. “You almost fell in the river.”

“ I fell in the river.” Perrin corrected. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

He looked up, his eyes fixed on Rand now. There was something in them — that ancient weight, that bond that no battle or time or even the Light could undo. That warmth that was irrefutably his, an unexplained knowledge that was old and new at the same time, an intimacy that only Perrin could master.

“That night… after Tam found us covered in mud and screaming about ghosts, you stayed behind.” Perrin continued, his tone soft. “You stayed behind to clean the mill, even when no one asked you to. Tam said it was the right thing to do. And you… you just nodded. Like you hadn’t been scared like the rest of us. Like it was your responsibility.”

Rand swallowed.

He remembered. 

He remembered the smell of flour in the air, the shame burning his face, the way his father had offered him a cloth and said, with that calm look in his eyes, “Real men clean up their own messes.”  

At the time, it just seemed... right.

“You always thought the world needed all of you, even before it did.” Perrin said, his voice quieter now. “And we… we always thought we could keep up with you. Even when we knew you were going somewhere none of us could follow.”

Rand turned to face him. It was nostalgic to have them there, he realized; a nostalgia that was tinged with gratitude. He was grateful, Rand blinked, that he still had them there, that he had been lucky enough to grow up with them before the world changed. That he was not completely alone now, even if the burden was still his alone.

“I wish…” Rand began, but his voice trailed off for a moment. He took a deep breath. “I wish we could have had more nights like that. More.”

Mat took a sip of his wine and sighed, but his voice was soft when he spoke, all the playfulness and teasing he had spoken with before disappearing, replaced by that seriousness and knowledge he had gained.

“We had enough, Rand.” He said simply. “We had enough. ” He glanced at Perrin, before turning his eyes back to him. “We all wanted more nights, more time , but we have had enough. We cannot love more than we already do; we already do it with all we have. Everything we are.”

“Yes… We can’t keep up with you, but we’ll go as far as we can, Rand.” Perrin gave a small, mirthless smile. “We can’t clean up the mess for you, but this time, we will stay.”

Rand swallowed, gripping the cup tighter.

It was a silent farewell, he knew. Not a goodbye yet, but the harbinger of one. There was a different path for each of them, he knew, and his was his alone.

“When this is all over.” Perrin continued, his voice much firmer than Rand felt. “I want us to go back there. Just once. Just us. At the oak hill. Where we buried the wooden sword we pretended was so much more than it was.”

“With a rock on top.” Mat added, smiling slightly. “So no one steals it.”

“So it’s always ours.” Rand completed the words, that old saying between three teenagers who dreamed of an adventure, without knowing what destiny had in store for them. “So no one forgets.”

Resting silently against his chest, Rand felt Lanfear squeeze his forearm carefully, her nails scraping the fabric as she held him gently, a silent, steady presence.

Rand raised his glass slowly, contemplating the words.

“To the ghosts of our childhood.”

“To the boys who thought they could win anything.” Perrin added.

“To the idiots who still believe they can.” Mat toasted with a crooked smile.

The glasses clinked.

Outside, the night was advancing.

Tomorrow, Rand blinked, there might be nothing left of the world.

But there, in that war tent, for an instant, a moment, he was a boy again, surrounded by the two friends he loved most and holding a woman he had never had the courage to even imagine being able to love and be loved by it .

And when Lanfear turned in his arm slightly, letting him hold her against him as he wanted — somehow, she always knew — his arm circling her neck as she rested her face against his chest, her arm around his waist, Rand closed his eyes, rested his chin on her head, and let himself breath among the ones he loved.

~

“That’s mine.” Lanfear pointed her fingers toward the sky, indicating a constellation. Rand smiled slightly at the matter-of-fact way she’d said it, the natural arrogance with which she carried herself. “Elan named it after me. Officially and everything.” She continued, her lips parting in a small smile. “Two hundred and thirty-three stars intertwined following the moon.” She snorted in amusement. “He actually had some sense of humor when he wanted to, so he waited to give it to me on my two hundred and thirty-third birthday.”

She talked about him more now, Rand had noticed.

After that dream; as if something had snapped, a door being thrown open that she could no longer close. It was surprisingly good to hear, in a way he couldn't explain, and the man's own words came back to him whenever he thought about it.

He couldn’t understand. 

Understand her; understand us.

What we were to ourselves and to each other.

It seemed Elan had gotten it right and taught him one last thing before they met in battle. Rand blinked, following her finger—the sky seemed more open, he realized, stretching out into a black expanse where stars twinkled and gleamed, as if it knew exactly what awaited them when the night ended and morning came.

He, in fact, contrary to Lews's still-blurry confusion about the two of them, did understand.

He understood with an ease that, at first, he had found frightening.

Two equal souls, that's what she and Elan were. Brothers in essence, in heart. Lovers in moments. Rivals in spirit and friends in flesh and soul. Reflections of each other, two versions that attracted each other, completed each other, in everything except a specific type of love.

He had thought, at first, after hearing her tell him why she had accepted the call, that he would be jealous of the way she talked about him; of the way she felt about him. But he had discovered after holding her against his chest while she cried, that Mierin Eronaile had a heart big enough for both of them, and that each of them had taken the perfect shape for their space, becoming incapable of replacing and occupying the other's space.

He had discovered and had understood .

And as she watched the stars, remembering the man he had been, the man she had loved and still loved, there was not a drop of jealousy in him, no restlessness or frustration, just that touch — that feeling — warm and soft that he called love.

“What did you give him?” she asked, and it was genuine curiosity, never a question asked just to please. Sometimes he forgot how old she was; that time in the Age of Legends was different not only in knowledge, but also in years, and that she had decades with Elan and Lews. Centuries of history that no one else knew. He snorted curiously. “Considering how competitive you are, you’d have to go big.”

She let out a laugh.

“A breakdown.” She laughed, rolling her eyes at him, the blue pools glistening with amusement, that old, mischievous, shameless smile playing on her pink lips. “Literally. A little breakdown of reality. Controlled, of course.” She made a careless motion with her hands. “I built a weaving — it took me decades, so I didn’t give it to him until about thirty years later — and took him to a place between what was and what could be; showed him a world where the light never stopped and thoughts had form. He was there for, I don’t know, five seconds.” She shrugged and laughed again. “Nearly lost his mind; made a mess, always thinking too many thoughts at once.”

Rand raised an eyebrow, letting out his own chuckle.

"Romantic."

“He thought so too.” she said, turning her eyes back to the sky, the stars reflected in her irises. “Called me insane, of course, and talked about the theory of it for a million uncountable, unbearably boring years, in that annoying way of his about life and death and all that depressing shit, but… then he went back in and gave me a moon made of solid light. Said it was the only thing he could think of that compared to me and it took form like that.”

Silence fell between them for a moment, comfortable as a warm blanket. She leaned a little closer against him, resting her ear against his chest, half-hidden under his arm as she was, and Rand pressed his lips to her forehead tenderly, as if they were the only ones in the world.

Even though the field was full, and down below, from the highest hill where they stood, Rand could hear people talking perfectly, saying goodbye, each in their own way, preparing for what could be the last night they would see each other.

He had made a few of these himself, having traveled to Lan’s camp. Malkier’s crown, created from the ancient designs, had been a gift to the man whose words had eased his mind more times than he could count; to the man who had taught him to stand. And when the swordsman clasped his forearm and pulled him into a goodbye hug, Rand had felt that string in his chest — the one that sang when he did something that felt right — sing.

He would make a good king, he knew; and Nynaeve would be the perfect queen for him, a crown mirroring his own resting as gently on her hand as the other had been.

Saying goodbye to his father had been harder.

Infinitely more difficult.

He had returned to Braem Wood, and given him Justice — the legendary sword of Arthur Paendrag Tanreall — apologizing for losing his original blade with the mark of Heron, and it had been difficult to hold Callandor with only one hand, but his father had wanted one last fight with his son, and Rand had wanted one last moment with his father, so he had fought until his father’s words — let go of everything — had sunk into his mind and holding the sword no longer weighed heavily on his shoulder and chest.

This time, Tam hadn't made a single complaint when Rand had squeezed him with all the strength he had in a hug; Rand had chosen to keep the feeling, and let go of the reason behind it.

There were more goodbyes to be said, Rand knew, and there was a ribbon tucked away in his things, waiting to be given to Egwene Al’Vere—to the first woman he had ever loved, whose hair he had longed to see braided one day, in a different life.

This one he would save for the last moment, when he was about to move on to Shayol Ghul. Not because it pained him to think about it, or because he didn’t want to, but because there were Lews and Mierin and Elan, and there were Rand and Mat and Perrin and Egwene. Much had changed since they had been four young people in Two Rivers, Rand blinked, but much more had changed since the first three had been a ‘them’, and the feeling remained the same, even if the sides were now opposites.

In his arms, Lanfear took a deep breath, tearing her eyes away from the stars and looking at him. That softness had found its place on her face again, that vulnerability that he loved to see, and that she showed to no one else

“He would have liked you.” She murmured, blinking slowly. “Even if there had been no Dragon. If you had been just a sheep herder, or a researcher, or an Aes Sedai, or some poor unlucky man somewhere who had bumped into me. If there had been no Lews and it had been just you. He would have liked you.”

Rand laughed, shaking his head, but the feeling in her eyes made him feel soft; happy, in a strange way.

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or a threat.”

“Both, probably.” she said, smiling. “He would have threatened you a little, of course; tested you to see how much you could take, but he would have liked you.” She blinked at him, slowly and calmly, and then whispered as she spoke, as if she couldn’t believe the words were real. “You risked the world for me, Rand al’Thor.” Her lips curved into a smile. “That would make Elan love you almost as much as I do.”

Almost as much as I do.

Rand smiled at the words, hugging her a little tighter to his chest; sometimes they were like that. Statements that weren’t made directly, but were clear in the details, noticeable while hidden elsewhere.

“Maybe he hated me a little too.” Rand murmured after a while, his fingers playing with a strand of her hair. He didn’t think he would, but still, he wanted to say the words. He wanted her to know that it didn’t bother him to talk about him. That he wanted to hear. “For taking you away from him.”

Lanfear let out a low laugh, almost a mocking sigh.

“Nah, that’s not Elan.” She purred, and there was enough certainty in her words that Rand didn’t even consider doubting them. “That’s not how he was. Never was.” She blinked, looking up at the stars again. Her voice was small when she spoke again, but it wasn’t to him anymore that she spoke, and Rand contented himself with pressing his lips to her forehead once more. “Never was.”

Rand kept his lips on her forehead, knowing she wouldn’t speak anymore; she talked more about Elan, about her and him and what they were one day, but he had learned to hear that finality in her voice when she reached the limit of what she could say.

That was okay too, Rand blinked.

He also had things he couldn't talk about much.

Like the fact that he would probably die the next night.

She knew that too.

That he wanted to live — he wanted to survive — but he didn't know if he could do it; if he was strong enough for it. That that night, watching the stars on a battlefield, could be the last night they would share.

And he didn't know what to say.

He didn't know how to say goodbye.

Rand blinked, sliding his fingers through hers. Her hand had always been too thin in his, her pale fingers seeming even thinner when they were intertwined with his, her smooth, unmarked skin a stark contrast to the dry, bruised skin that made up his hands, scars spreading across his skin. Against the glow of the moon and the torches that dotted the field, arranged to make the place as bright as possible, that ring stood out against her finger, gleaming brightly on her right hand, wrapped around his arm.

Rand let his arm slip from her hand slowly, and heard the way her breath caught slightly as he slowly pulled his body away from hers, giving her time to straighten.

The grass tingled beneath his knees as he took a step back, almost reaching the final, the highest point where the hill rose, and he crouched down, kneeling before her, but Rand didn't bother, choosing instead to watch the way her eyes widened slightly for a second before returning to normal.

Rand didn’t speak as he pulled the ring from her slender fingers, letting her right hand fall away when it was in his, and then silently, slowly, he took her left hand, lifting it and turning it face up. Her eyes followed the movement as he brought the ring—the Sakarnen—to her left hand, sliding it down her ring finger until it was in place.

The weaving came silently, something familiar and soft, a promise, and Rand let the answer burn in his eyes when she hesitated for a second—that thin line of uncertainty in her eyes. Not on her part, he knew; on his — , bringing her fingers to his lips as they did so, a consent and an encouragement.

The Weave was ancient—unlike any he had seen used by the Aes Sedai of this era—complex, made of threads that intertwined emotion, power, and flesh, and Rand felt, as she touched the Power, a door unlocking within him, opening for her to enter.

She did it slowly, carefully and gently, reverently, silently letting her body, her soul, melt into his, and Rand felt the world grow brighter, warmer, for an instant when she actually did it, a surge of power washing over him, making his thoughts heavier and yet inexplicably lighter.

Felt her , he choked.

He felt the weight of her soul, the brightness, the darkness, the ancient hunger, the thirst for power and knowledge and that pioneering desire for more, the recent love — the love that was for Lews, and the love that was solely for him eclipsing the first — that thread of fear and that overwhelming wave of anger that still swirled in her breast.

He felt everything, and he didn't back down.

She whispered the words of the bond in the Old Tongue, letting her lips brush over his as she spoke them, and Rand felt them burn beneath his skin; felt her burn on his skin. There were no words, and she expected nothing more than what he had to give, and she melted against him when he kissed her. Not in a hurry, not hungry, not desperate.

Just a quiet, firm kiss— a promise made under the stars.

Rand held his lips on hers for a few more seconds, then tore them away to press them to her forehead for another second and took a deep breath. The night was growing deeper, Rand knew, undeniable in the darkness that was slowly creeping deeper and deeper into the countryside, the voices growing quieter and quieter. Her fingers were still clasped in his, slender and firm, and for a moment he wanted to hold on to that touch, to freeze time there.

Maybe in some other life someone would figure out how to do it.

In this wheel of time, all he could do was hold her against him, and when he let his body fall to the earth, settling on the floor, she followed him with the same ease with which she had done so many other times, circling him with her legs as she sat on his lap, the fabric of her dress crumpled around her hips, her hair a black cascade around her face, and that look that made him weak in the knees shining in her eyes.

Rand blinked, slowly and affectedly, and she saw, felt exactly what had blossomed in his chest, in his mind, at the sight, opening one of those sinfully attractive smiles and then biting her lower lip between her teeth and Rand let his hand rest on her face, hiding it from him in a fragile - and very failed - attempt not to feel the effects that look had on him, and laughed, her laughter accompanying his, half muffled by his hand on her face.

Her teeth scraped the side of his palm, light and teasing, an almost childish gesture that made him laugh again, a low, husky laugh, and she seized the moment, gripping his wrist and slowly pulling his hand away, her eyes still locked on his. 

“Is it always like this?” She murmured, low and soft, curiosity and a bit of that touch of knowledge, power, and satisfaction mixed with an adoration that made him feel weak, shining in her eyes. “When you look at me.”

Rand wondered quickly what she felt on the other side of the bond. It wasn’t a bond like one between an Aes Sedai and a Warder, but something deeper; older — a marriage made of time and Ages; they were practically the only ones left from that time, he recalled. Two remnants of an Age soon to be forgotten; legends of an ancient world, guarding secrets the world would never know. — and the emotion, the feeling, flowed so freely between them that there was almost no separation between what was her and what was him.

“How?”

“As if you had never seen me before.” Lanfear murmured slowly, almost as if she didn’t believe her own words. Rand could feel, he noticed, the surprise in her chest as she spoke, as she tried to put into words what he felt and that was now part of her. Her voice sounded hoarse when she spoke, almost emotional, if she weren’t herself; it no longer mattered how she looked, Rand realized, he could feel the way her chest tightened and then expanded, loaded with emotion. “As if it were always the first time.”

His eyes wandered over her face as she spoke, storing every line, every curve, every shadow under her eyes in his memory, as if she were sacred, as if every detail held a meaning only he — only him now — could understand.

“Yes.” He answered at last, in a low voice, almost a whisper only she could hear. She was silent, eyes wide for a brief moment, and Rand felt — through the bond, through the silence — her heart skip, speeding up. He couldn’t help but smile, enchanted, even when his voice sounded low and weak, too moved. “It always feels like the first time. I have never seen —” He laughed, lowering his head, cheeks burning slightly, somewhat embarrassed, before raising it again to meet her eyes. “You know you’re beautiful, Lanfear, but to me… I have never seen a person as beautiful as you. Ever. You take my breath away every time you look at me.” He laugh, slowly. “Made my mind go blank the first time I saw you. Still does.”

Her eyes flickered for a second — a fleeting, quick second — cloudy and wet before she tore them away from his and Rand saw — not through the bond, but with his own eyes — that iron wall of hers tremble; it wasn’t just the words, he knew, it was what she felt in him. The truth of his words. The certainty. The love . She took a deep breath before turning her eyes back to his, but Rand didn’t let go, resting his hand against her face, along the defined line of her jaw.

Her breath hitched slightly as his thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone, his touch feather-light, reverent. The bond between them hummed with unspoken emotion, amplifying every sensation — the warmth of his palm against her skin, the way her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers, the quiet awe that filled his chest whenever he looked at her. The way she melted when he did it.

“I wanted you.” She murmured after a while, lifting her hand from where it had found its place against his neck to trace the nape of his neck, fingers threading slowly into his hair as she spoke; whispering, as if it were a secret. “At first. When I saw you in Cairhien, the first time. I knew who you were, who you were supposed to be, but I didn't expect — I didn't expect you, and when you lifted your eyes to me at the door of that inn and looked at me like that, I wanted you. Not Lews, not the Dragon Reborn. Just… you .”

“You have me.” Rand whispered to her, brushing his lips against hers.  “You have me, Mierin, in any name you choose to bear it, to me and for yourself.”

“Just Rand.” She whispered and his hands slid down her back, pulling her closer; she pressed her forehead against his, her eyes closed. She whispered, fierce and unyielding, as if she could will it into truth. “You’re going to live.” 

Rand exhaled, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. 

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You will. ” Her fingers tightened in his hair, not in anger, but in something far more dangerous. Faith. “Because if I can have you in any name I choose, then I want Rand , and you won’t deny me that.”

Rand closed his eyes for a moment, letting the feel of her words wash over him — the weight of them, the rawness. It wasn’t a plea. It was a vow. A command wrapped in devotion. He could feel the thread of her belief stretching taut between them through the bond, and it was that — not her strength, not her power, not even the terrible beauty of her soul — that made something deep in him fracture.

He hadn’t expected that.

It wasn’t just that she loved him. It was that she believed in him, when so many others had only followed because they had no other choice. Her belief wasn’t born from prophecy, or hope. It wasn’t because the Pattern needed him. And it wasn’t on the Dragon that her belief laid, but in him. 

She simply wanted him to live .

He didn’t realize he was shaking until she pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face, her thumb brushing beneath his eye — catching a tear before it fell. She breathed, resting her forehead to his, her breath warm on his lips. Her voice, when she spoke, was a whisper.

“Ask me.”

Rand blinked, confused.

“Ask you what?”

Her hand moved again to his chest, over his heart. “Ask me if I love you.”

“Do you?” He swallowed. Already knew the answer, but asked anyway.  “Do you love me, Mierin Eronaile?”

“I do.” Her eyes didn’t waver when she whispered. “I do, indeed, love you, Rand al’Thor.”  

The words settled into him like sunlight through ice, soft and absolute. Warm. I love you, Rand al’Thor. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even the first tine she had said it. It was quiet and irrevocable. Truth, said in such a form that he didn’t even need the bond between them to know, and yet, when she said it, it drowned him in feeling, in depth, as if she herself was overwhelmed with so much love, that she also could not breathe along with him and Rand’s breath caught again. 

For all the power she held, the lifetimes she’d lived, that — those words — were the most dangerous and tender thing she had ever given him and within him, her presence became even greater, taking up more space in his chest, even when it already occupied everything . He touched her face, gently, reverently, as if afraid she’d vanish. 

Her skin was smooth beneath his callused fingers. 

“Say it again.” He whispered, not because he didn’t believe her, but because he wanted to remember how it sounded when she said it like that — like it wasn’t war, or duty, or fate, but a choice. A choice that she loved to make. “Say it again, please.”

“I love you.” Lanfear breathed, and her voice trembled slightly now, as if saying it twice made it more real. As if she herself couldn’t believe that she actually could say the words. “I love you, Rand, in a way that overwhelm me, makes me weak and it makes me stronger, makes me want to devour the world and somehow still makes me want —” She gasped, trembling in the words. “Somehow still makes me want to be nothing, but yours. You are the Light of my existence, cariad and I love you. ”

The last words hung between them like a fragile thread, taut with all the power of a thousand whispered promises. Rand’s heart thundered so loudly he thought it might shatter the silence, and yet the moment felt eternal — a fragile bubble where time bent just for them. His hand moved, slowly, to her neck, cradling the back of her head. His chest ached from the force of the feeling in him — not from the bond, but from his own heart . And when he kissed her this time, it was no promise.

It was a truth .

She whimpered, softly, a wet, passionate strangled noise against his lips, and Rand gasped at the pulse of desire and affection and love that washed over her all at once, spreading through her like wildfire.

When he pulled away, his voice was a vow.

“I’ll come back. For you. If there’s any part of me left after Shayol Ghul — even if I’m dust and wind and memory — I’ll find you.”

She leaned in then, her hair brushing his chest, her body fitting even closer to his, her arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders as she kissed him, again and again, until his thoughts were wandering about everything and nothing and the feel of her on his mouth and on him left his chest warm and satisfied and his body limp.

Her hair fanned out over the grass as he turned her over, laying her down on the grass, her eyes shining in that way that was sweet and dangerous and passionate all at once.

Rand took her lips in his again, melted into her arms, and begged the gods, the Creator, whatever force was watching over them from the stars, for this to not be the last time he was looked at like that.

~

Rand was dreaming and he knew it.

It was a good dream.

She was sitting on a smooth rock, her dark gray dress dancing in the wind, her bare feet touching the foam and her hair floating free against the wind, her eyes fixed on the sun that was slowly beginning to hide behind the endless shadow of the sea; the golden glow of the sun reflected off her, and, sitting a little below her, Rand silently watched the way her eyes glistened wetly, almost as wet as the water that stretched endlessly before them.

The man standing beside her was staring out at the horizon, arms crossed over the simple tunic he wore, a gray similar to the color she wore; he was wearing his face again.

The face she knew.

It was a farewell, they all knew, even if none of them would put it into words. None of them would acknowledge that, come the next night, one of them would no longer exist; that perhaps, they should not have existed together even at that night. Neither of them had said anything since they had drifted off into a shared dream, and Rand knew she was wondering what to say.

She hadn't found an answer, so she let the sea breeze envelop them all like a veil, salt and time hovering over them.

He looked at her first; she remained calm, but he could see the tension in her shoulders, in the way her hand trembled on the rock. Against the yellow glow that flooded the place, this beach lost in time, her skin seemed to drink in the light of the setting sun, making her eyes seem even bluer against the yellow that shone on her white skin; Rand thought, sadly, that he had never seen her so serene.

Or so sad.

Elan — not Ishamael now, not Moridin. Elan, one last time; one last time for her — kept his eyes fixed on the sea, his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, and didn’t say a word either, even though he hovered beside her like a guard.

The sun was burning the horizon after what Rand thought had been hours of that shared dream when they finally moved, Elan taking a small step forward and her finally turning to face him.

Rand stood, stepping back and taking his position—on guard—and swallowed hard as Lanfear met Elan’s eyes with her own, tensing slightly at what either of them would say, but for a moment that felt eternal, she said nothing, letting her eyes do the talking.

He broke the silence for both of them, his voice hoarse and low, a whisper laden with weariness.

“Are you happy, Mierin?” He blinked at her slowly, his eyes shining as they spoke, even though the weariness was so noticeable in them that Rand felt the weight on his own shoulders. “I would like to leave this world knowing that you are.”

“Yes,” she murmured to him; Rand saw the way her nose wrinkled slightly, in that way he had discovered she did when she wanted to cry. “Yes, I’m happy, Elan.”

“Good.”

He didn't speak again, turning his eyes back to the sea.

She followed the vision with him for a long time before she spoke again. It was a low, hoarse whisper, so thin that if it hadn’t been a dream and they hadn't control over what was happening in this small slice of the world, Rand knew it wouldn’t have been heard.

“Do you want me to fight for you? To break what he did?” She choked slightly on the last words, swallowing a hurt sound neither of them recognized, pretending not to hear. “I will, if you say so. I will, Elarim. ”

Rand clenched his fists at the question, a failed attempt to dispel the pain that had clenched his heart, a deep, raw wound torn open by her words. It was hers, he knew; even in the dream world, he could feel her. To be able to feel the pain and the fear and the despair which she tried to mitigate by looking at the sea. It was not a plea — it would never be, not coming from her and not to him; she would not ask that of him.

But there was something in that voice… a silent plea for Elan to say yes.

So that even if she knew he wouldn't, even if she understood and was happy that he would, one way or another, eventually get what he wanted — what he had wanted for centuries — things were different; a hope she knew was futile, fraught with knowledge , but still stained by desire.

For the desire to achieve everything and don’t lose anything .

So that he would choose to live.

She was shaking, Rand realized, and forced himself not to move closer. He could hold her in his bed, in that tent on a war field, when they woke up; this little dream, a moment in the midst of what could be the end of all things, it wasn't him and it wasn't his arms that she wanted.

Elan took a step closer to her, kneeling before her, his knees sinking into the sand, the water soaking his pants, and Rand blinked, unable to look away, as her lips trembled slightly.

“No.” He murmured at last, reaching out a hand to touch her cheek, the corner of her chin. “No, lia’miren, I don’t want you to fight for me. I’m so tired; so tired.” She turned her face away from his, away from his gaze, hiding herself from him, and Rand lowered his head where he was, blinking, once, twice, as she struggled, staring out at the sea, trying not to cry. At the man and at the words; ‘my Mierin’, he had said, her name transformed into something loving and soft and old and familiar. “I just want to close my eyes and never open them again, el’sairen.”

She choked, a cry finally escaping, something wet and loud and almost childish.

“But what about me ?”

It was painful, wounded and hurt, and Rand wanted to look away, wanted to avert his eyes, give them privacy. But he couldn't.

He couldn't.

Because that was the reason she had asked him to come with her; to not let her do it alone. 

Because no matter how much time had passed, and what could have happened in that time, she was Mierin and he was Elan, they would always be Mierin and Elan, and she used to call him Elarim — the balance in my soul — and she was el’sairen — the star that guides in the night — and she didn’t know how to say goodbye.

Because she wouldn't be able to say goodbye to him if she was alone.

Elan closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them, tugging her chin with a gentleness that made Rand himself want to cry, searching her eyes again.

“You will live.” He whispered to her. “You will live, and learn, and fail, and cry, and laugh. You will be happy , Mierin, as you deserve to be.” He paused, adjusting himself until he was standing in front of her, and tipped her chin up so she would look at him as he did so. “And you will love , love like no one else is worthy enough to deserve.”

She closed her eyes, her hands and body shaking so badly she could barely sit on the rock as she was. She didn’t need to, Rand discovered, because Elan pushed forward, an arm snaking around her shoulders, and she fell hard against his chest. The sound she made as her body met his wasn’t a sob — it was something older, more naked — and this time, Rand looked away, unable to keep looking; not quick enough to miss the way her hands shook as they fisted in the back of his gray robe, clutching him tightly nonetheless.

The waves crashed against the rocks with a wild, violent noise as she pressed herself against him tighter, and Rand saw the command that burned in the other man's eyes as he met his gaze, her back turned to him, still holding her against his chest.

Win.

It wasn't until she had stopped crying, slowly straightening her body in his embrace, that Elan took a step back, letting her slip out of his arms; he let his lips stretch into a smile that was a mirror of hers.

“Have you always been such a crybaby?!” She let out a choked laugh in response, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, bringing her hand to her face to wipe away the tears, even though she knew more would come; Rand saw the way she tried to compose her face, her back straight, her eyes returning to that familiar calm. Elan’s eyes softened. “You’ll be fine, Mierin.” He murmured, brushing her hair away from her face; Rand blinked tenderly. Pure, sincere affection, no intention other than the one visible in his eyes. “We got where we wanted to go, didn’t we?! I wanted to see the end, and you wanted to… well,” He smiled a little wider. “You wanted everything. Like always.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t settle for less.” She grumbled, tugging at her dress, the wet hem getting tangled in the sand. “I should have bossed your stupid depressed sorry ass more, actually.”

“I already told you that I am not depressive .” He grumbled, almost rolling his eyes at her. “I’m existential, there’s a difference; you really need to start working on that ignorance of yours and learn it soon. It’s ugly for a woman with a face like yours to be old and dumb.”

She laughed, something free and almost light, and Rand found himself smiling where he stood, reaching into his pants pocket as he watched them. She pouted at him, tossing her hair back and assuming that devilish, defiant posture; imposing and provocative.

“Existentially boring , that’s what.”

Elan stared at her for a second, before letting out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head slightly in a denial that Rand was almost certain was false, as if he were talking to a child and had been repeating the same thing for a long time.

“You know, I love you Mierin, but I really won't miss that personality of yours.”

Rand saw it happen, before it happened.

The way her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, the way her nostrils flared, her chest beginning to rise. He saw it happen before it happened, and he told himself he was ready.

That he could handle it.

But when Mierin Eronaile opened her lips, threw back her head and laughed — a high, booming laugh, young in a way he couldn’t explain, as if they were back in time; a laugh that rang like bells — Moridin’s lips — Elan’s — trembled, a fleeting, simple quiver of his lower lip as he looked at her, and Rand knew it was a lie.

He wasn't prepared.

None of them were; not him, nor the man he shared a connection with, whose face the hand of the woman they both loved more than anything gently caressed.

And when Elan Morin Tedronai cried, the Dragon Reborn did it too.

Chapter Text

Egwene al’Vere, Throne of Amyrlin, was going to die.

She knew that she was going to die.

There were no patterns to think about war, she already knew long before moving from one battlefield to another, but, with each setback she encountered, from the events in the battle of Kandor, to the meeting with Empress Seachan and the disastrous conversation in search of an agreement about the damned a'dam , to the death of those she loved — Gawyn — the more that feeling inside her grew.

A voice, sounding exactly like hers, whispering to her to make peace with the fact that she would not come out of the Last Battle alive.

It was the same voice that had ordered her to hand over the Forces of Light to Mat's command, when it was proven that Gareth Bryne no longer had control of his thoughts, trapped in the compulsion of what remained of the Forsaken.

Would die.

There was no sa’angreal that would give her enough strength to change this.

She had fought, fought like she had never fought before, fought for the world and for the Aes Sedai she called her daughters. Fought for herself and for those she loved. She had fought to the last of her strength, and after that , had fought a little more.

She had found enough strength to force M'Hael to flee once, but as her eyes fell upon him, a dark shadow in the middle of the battlefield, she knew she would not be able to find it again.

There was something different about him.

Something deeper.

She didn't know the True Power, but she had heard enough descriptions to identify its presence and touch.

It wasn't just that, which flowed from him.

It was something more dangerous, more dark, and the frozen, crystallized form her last strength had made of him, cracked.

She would die there.

She would fight , because she was Egwene al’Vere, the Amyrlin Seat, and she would not go down without a fight— not fall without fighting — but she would die there.

She could feel death knocking on her door, summoning her by name, and so she closed her eyes and offered a prayer to Luz, a request that she at least be able to defeat him; with what was left of her, with what she still had to use, that she could.

So that she would die, but take him with him.

It was not the light that responded.

Instead, when M’Hael, the highest ranking military officer in the Asha'man, wove Balefire wrapped around something else, something that made the Aes Sedai behind her gasp and sent a current of fear racing through her even as she refused to fear — she was Egwene, of the Two Rivers, the Amyrlin Seat, and an Aes Sedai, and she would not fear the enemy — and Egwene prepared to use the last thing she had, to give her life for the world, It was a woman in white who answered the call, and Egwene’s eyes widened, before she felt the raw power she had channeled wrench her body backward.

She wove effortlessly.

She wove plots that unfolded one after the other, as if she didn't even need to channel them for them to come to light, one plot emerging before the other had even finished, power circling her, trailing behind her and dragging the world and the battlefield that surrounded them with it.

Weavings that she didn't know.

Egwene almost didn't see the threads — so fast, so thickly layered that her eyes barely followed, her head dizzy with the pressure of the earlier fight and the way her presence seemed to subdue the air. First, a spiral of white fire shaped into blades, dancing around her body, striking everything in its path; then shrapnel erupted from the ground, piercing the earth and scattering toward the Sharan dreadlords trying to flank her.

There was no sound other than breathing, the battlefield slowly falling silent; Egwene heard the sharp crack of the first deaths. 

Then came dozens.

Then hundreds.

An entire line, dissolving into thin air the more she moved, passing between the rows, searching for the man trying to escape.

Egwene tried to rise. She needed to help. She was the Amyrlin Seat; she needed to serve . She needed to at least see clearly what was happening; but she couldn't, her leg giving out when she tried to stand up, her eyes struggling to look straight.

That wasn't a battle, she gasped.

It was annihilation .

M’Hael stepped back from where he stood, whatever he was channeling along with Balefire’s weavings, the power and sinister pressure of the weaving filling the air, quickly breaking apart so he could raise a shield, holding his ground as Lanfear stepped back, hit by a flurry of channeling that stained her white dress with blood, and snarled, raw power flowing free of her.

The Sharan and dreadlords across the field were not so lucky, or had the ability , and Egwene heard someone gasp behind her as a dark wave of power spread across the field, burning and destroying everything in its path.

It wasn't Balefire she had cast, and if it was, then Egwene would have had to have missed the weave  being cast, but whatever it was, decimated the bodies strewn across the field, a myriad of screams so desperate echoing that she almost put her hands over her ears to stop the sound from penetrating her ears.

The pressure coming off her was different from the one she’d felt from M’Hael. It had the same weight, the same dark, dangerous feel, but it was firmer, more stinging, more violent, as if even the way she moved was made of power. 

She didn’t flinch, Egwene realized, not even as a pulse of power shot toward her, the Sharan rearranging themselves — the ones she hadn’t roasted— into a direct, steady attack, her chest thrusting forward with a snarl, her legs floating in the air as she blocked the attack with her chest. 

Whatever it was, it didn’t work, and Egwene watched as she thrust her chest forward harder, flying into the air, her white dress billowing as she dragged bodies and earth with her with the force of her movement, power circling her, a silver blur shrouded in darkness, as she drove herself forward, pushing the attack back at her enemies with her chest, her hand tracing another weave in the air.

Egwene's eyes widened even more when she realized the way she shone , the white arms looking like marble.

She knew that power, she gasped, her eyes widening even further.

She had felt it in the Aiel Waste, when Moiraine Sedai had encountered the Sakarnen.

When Moiraine Sedai had raised her hands on a dune, hiding from them what she held in her hands, but she had been unable to hide the pulse of energy and uncontrolled power she had unleashed, her body unable to contain the tide of raw energy the Sakarnen brought forth. Egwene remembered it all too clearly—she had been practicing with the Aiel Wise Ones when she had felt it, and her body had shivered all over, even though she had been far away from where Moiraine practiced.

Moiraine had returned to the camp, panting, the folds of her skirt torn, her braid disheveled in such an unnatural way that even Aviendha glanced at her over the bowl of water in her hands. She was carrying something wrapped in white cloth, pressed to her body as if it were a wounded child.

A ball made of silver.

Lan had been the first to approach and hadn't said a word, just held out his hand and Moiraine retreated.

Not afraid.

With possessiveness.

Aviendha had disguised it well, but Egwene had seen the way her eyes narrowed. Rand had arrived soon after, his face sweaty, dust in his hair, coming from wherever he had been these days, worried about the sudden pulse of power he had felt, scared that they had been found— the hypocrite ; he slept with the enemy every day, sharing dreams of love, and then acted as if he wasn't giving her all the material she needed to actually find them — and Moiraine didn't explain anything other than that it was a glitch — a mistake that shouldn't be repeated — and that she wouldn't be able to channel for a few days.

Between the confrontation with Lanfear a few weeks later and the conquest of Caemlyn, she had lost.

Rand said that she had lost.

That the Sakarnen were lost to the world, and that it was more advantageous to look for other sa'angreal than to spend the little time they had looking for something they would not find.

Egwene couldn't help but laugh.

A dry, incredulous laugh.

He had given it to her, she choked and cursed.

He had given the damn Sakarnen to a forsaken , and lied about it for months.

Years , perhaps. 

It didn't matter that she was supposedly fighting for them.

It didn't even matter that she was his fucking wife.

Egwene’s throat went dry, trying to keep her eyes on the figure before her — Lanfear, wrapped in light and shadow, beautiful and deadly, her whole body glowing like the damned moon or a constellation. She didn’t tremble. She didn’t look like a pawn; she didn’t fight to control the power emanating from Sa’angreal. She hardly seemed to possess one, if it weren't for the absurd pressure of power emanating from her; she could barely see him, she didn't even present him in battle as Egwene had seen being done with others, as if she had swallowed the Sa’angreal and it was part of her.

He armed her, she choked.

He armed her .

Rand — the Dragon Reborn, destined to defeat the Dark One and free the world — gave the strongest sa’angreal the world had ever seen, to a Forsaken .

One of the worst.

The worse.

Egwene choked on the sudden nausea, suddenly all too aware of what was already past.

It had to have been after Tear, Egwene realized.

It had to have been after Callandor, and it was that , she realized.

It was that, that had made Aviendha look at him again as she had done in those first days when she had first met him. That, was what had made him lose her respect, her trust, in such a blatant way that anyone who knew them could tell, and it was because of that, that in all the meetings they had in the months in which he had begun his conquests, she hardened every time the possibility of lost angreal and sa’angreal objects was mentioned. Rand had never said a word when the subject came up, merely adjusting the hilt of his sword and letting his eyes wander into the distance, as he had become accustomed to doing, but the Aiel turned her face away to him when he, or someone, said something about the burden of power because the hypocrisy embarrassed her and she wanted to speak.

Light, Egwene cursed.

That was treason.

Not just to her, to the Tower, to the Aes Sedai, but to the very logic that underpinned this damned alliance. The Sakarnen could have saved countless lives, if it had been used since the beginning of the war.

If it was being wielded by someone who was fighting by them.

If it was being wielded by her , or by Elayne, or Moiraine herself who had first found it, or Cadsuane, or literally anyone else . 

It could have evened the playing field, and he gave it to Lanfear.  

And the calmness with which he pretended he didn't...

Egwene gasped, pushing herself back slightly.

Elayne had tried.

Elayne had tried.

When the Tower joined the forces of Light at Merrilor Field to discuss battle techniques and strategies, Elayne had tried, insisted on cataloging the available objects of Power, and Rand had stood before the table, perfectly unperturbed, his hands clasped in front of him while Elayne — Elayne who was evidently, flagrantly in love with him and whose heart would break if she knew what he had done; how he had looked into her eyes and lied and let her think she was helping— talked and talked and talked about the damned Sakarnen and how they needed it.

It had been Moiraine who had put an end to the argument — which, Egwene now realized, was perhaps because she had been bothered by how unchanged Rand had remained, or because it had been her whom he stole —and even at that moment, Egwene had found strange the disdain and disinterest Rand had shown throughout the entire conversation.

“Some sa’angreal are beyond our control.” She had said. “Their cost is greater than their benefit.”

Rand nodded . 

Of course, he had nodded, Egwene spat on the bloodstained earth.

It wasn't disdain.

It wasn't disinterest.

It was guilt.

He nodded because he knew exactly where it was at all times and he knew that no one could snatch it from the hands of its bearer because those hands could kill . He knew because she slept beside him, in his damned bed and he called her love, even though he knew how dangerous she was.

He knew that the Sakarnen was not lost and he knew that no one else could use it, because he wanted no one else to use it. Because in some twisted way, Egwene could taste blood and bile in her mouth, in some sick reasoning that could only exist within a mind warped by the burden of the Dragon Reborn, Rand had found it acceptable to hand over a weapon of unimaginable power— more than Callandor, more than Vora’s sa’angreal, more than any other artifact left over from the time before the Fight Against the Dark One —to a woman who had almost destroyed the world once .

And, it filled her with anger and disgust that now she owed her life to her.

She owed Lanfear her life, because Rand had given her the Sakarnen, and she had used it very well.

The naturalness with which she used the power…

As if it were hers.

As if the entire world were in the palm of her hands and she was free to shape it, to destroy it. Every step she took closer to M’Hael, Egwene noticed, the more the threads buckled, tore, as if the very fabric of the world bled with power; and he was fighting — fighting with all he had, even managing to hurt her, the white dress marked with her blood. She could not see the object —and she wanted to see it, wanted to check what she already knew— but she felt it; she felt the way the ground vibrated as if it were about to give way, the way the air rippled around the woman in white, every inch of her tinged with beauty and ruin, her white dress stained with blood.

The realization was sweet and icy and haunting and dangerous.

She wasn't going to die.

She wasn't going to die , because Rand al’Thor had given the most powerful sa’angreal of all to his wife, and, for some reason, she came there to fight .

She wasn't going to die.

Not today, because even in betrayal, Rand al'Thor had justified his actions.

It was war, and the ends justified the means.

She was a one-woman army, Egwene swallowed and pressed a trembling hand against her chest, trying to quiet the hammering of her heart, but her eyes never left the battlefield. 

Never left her . 

It wasn’t just that she was strong — many were strong. It wasn’t just that she had power — the Light knew that Egwene had seen power used for ruin. She had seen power, touched the power herself, so much power that her body had trembled.

No, it was something else. 

It was in the command.

The authority.

Lanfear did not wield the One Power as a weapon.

It almost seemed like she was the weapon and Power bowed to her willing.

The wind around her stirred without pattern, caught in the collision of air and the threads she pulled one after another from every angle, strands of Fire and Earth whipping through the world as she moved through the chaos, her feet not even touching the ground. For some reason, as she floated through the air, her white dress a quick shadow from place to place, Egwene couldn’t help but remember those slippers; the woman stamping her feet on the floor in Tear, wearing a flip-flop and looking almost ordinary as she did so.

There was nothing common in Mierin Eronaile, Egwene gasped at the realization.

Not Lanfear, Mierin.

That could not be created only by the Darkness. Had to be something from inside. Something from her , her person, the woman inside the legend. She had seen many channelers lose control when tapping into vast sources of power; even the most disciplined Aes Sedai could falter before the tide of a sa’angreal. She had nearly done so herself, more times than she cared to think. But Lanfear… Lanfear rode like a storm-born queen, as if the Sakarnen had not only rallied behind her, but her  recognized her, floating in the air, carried by the force of her connection to the Source, but she did not waver, she did not retreat.

Was this, Egwene wondered, how a sa'angreal was supposed to be used? Had she been using it wrong all along, or was it just her who made it possible for the Sakarnen? Could she do that with a sa’angreal?! Be that strong?! That powerful?!

She was moving too fast, Egwene blinked, trying to keep up. 

Too fast for her to understand what she was going to do next, and when she raised her arm and half a dozen dreadlords ceased to exist, bodies vanishing into thin air as if they had never been, she couldn’t fathom the weave that had done it. It wasn’t Balefire. It wasn’t Earth, Fire, Air, or any recognizable mix. It was almost as if the Pattern itself was bending beneath her fingers, as if she were pulling threads from a tapestry only she could see, and it must be impossible , against the rules of what they knew, but somehow, it was real .

And she didn't stop.

M'Hael fought like a raging beast, drawing so deeply on the True Power that his veins glowed black, his face contorted with rage and madness, anger flowing from his lips so strongly that she could hear him curse even over the violent noise of the clash of power; could see the lines of the Dark One's mark on his skin, crackling like molten fire. 

He was terrible. 

He was terrifying.

And he was losing.

Because no matter how much Power he threw at her, how much the Sharan supported him in his attacks, at the moment they neared her, the light twisted in the air and vanished, the weaves shuddering into nothingness. Lanfear didn’t even look at them; her hands were busy drawing sigils in the air, so sure of it that it made it look like she wasn’t even thinking before doing it.

Each mark was a death sentence. 

Each line was a scream.

A scream that echoed — hundreds of voices at once — across the field, as another wave of her power expanded outward, invisible and terrible, collapsing lungs, snapping bones, slicing flesh without heat, without flame. A man a hundred paces away dropped to his knees, eyes wide, mouth frothing, blood bursting from every orifice. Egwene saw his lips move — “Light…” — before he fell, still twitching.

It was useless.

Because Lanfear — Light, she wasn't even defending herself.

She took the attacks head on, chest first, letting them hit her, and then she advanced, each wound dug into her body closing before it stopped bleeding, each cut returning to nothingness, as if it had never existed. The battlefield pulsed around her, power radiating from her skin, not in tendrils, not in waves, not controlled , a little at a time, but in a field.

A field of pure power that encompassed her and swallowed everything.

Egwene could barely breathe.

It wasn't just that Lanfear was powerful. She knew she was. Everyone knew she was. It was that the Source seemed to obey her differently than it obeyed the others. It did not resist. It almost looked like it conspire d. The Sa’angreal did not overwhelm it with her power; it surrendered to hers. Willingly. As if it had been waiting since the Age of Legends to be wielded this way.

As if had been waiting to be wielded by her.

And may the Light help her — Egwene was so fucking impressed, so enchanted and captivated by the way she moved, the confidence with which she did so,  that It made her want to be like her.

Despite all the horror, all the betrayal, all the blood, fire and ash, fear that spread over her, Egwene could not deny the majesty of what she saw; the desire to be just the same.

Because that woman was a force of nature.

Lanfear whirled again, her blood-soaked gown fluttering like a war flag, and Egwene saw her face — calm, serene, deadly — as she glanced at M’Hael, who had stumbled, coughing blood, and there was no mercy in her eyes when she turned them to her; calling her .

Light… her eyes .

They seemed made of silver and darkness, Egwene gasped; blue eyes that shone silver before being swallowed by darkness.

Beautiful. 

Inhuman. 

Terrifying.

Egwene flinched , and she hated herself for it. The One Power surged around her like a river in flood, a protection from a woman who were not even attacking her, and still it was nothing compared to her . 

She was no simply channeler, Egwene realized — she was a cataclysm . 

An end.

And yet, there was no triumph on her face. No rage. Only something colder. Something deeper.

Possession.

This battlefield was hers. The Sakarnen was hers. The power, the death, the sky breaking open — hers .

Egwene couldn’t decide what terrified her more: that Lanfear was doing this at all… or that she wasn’t even trying .

Because there was still something held back . Egwene could feel it. Like a second sun hidden behind a cloud, waiting to rise. Something older. Something that had once broken the world; a curiosity to find out how far she could go, how much power she possessed. A well full of something else. Something worse.

And she had Rand to thank for that.

Egwene clenched her hands, fingers curling around the blood-soaked earth. The taste of bile returned.

This wasn’t a victory.

It was a warning.

A message, loud and clear, of who she was. A compensation, Egwene knew the second her eyes flicked to her, for what she had done in that war tent. For what she had tried to do to Rand, trying to undermine his influence, and he had leaned on her hands.

Not to be supported by it, Egwene realized.

To contain.

It was a very direct warning of what happened when she wasn't satisfied. What could have happening that day, if Rand had not held her. If Rand didn’t care with her enough to let his wife do what she really wanted to do. What she could still do, if, somehow, she ended up on her wrong side.

The message had been understood very well, and when M’Hael’s body flew high into the sky, hitting the ground with a loud thud that echoed across the field— the battlefield at Tarwin’s Gap where she would die — and Lanfear, the fucking wife of the Dragon Reborn, crossed the space slowly, clad in a white gown turned red by the blood spilled in battle, Egwene al’Vere, Amyrlin Seat, accepted the support of one of her daughters and rose to her feet.

And as she trailed behind her, a healing weave following her, slowly steadying her, it was not to fight her that he stopped beside the woman in question; nor was it out of curiosity or desire that he let her eyes wander over her, but out of a necessary search, looking for the sa'angreal she carried.

Her eyes widened, and cold awareness descended upon her.

No one would take that sa’angreal, he realized.

No one would ever take that sa’angreal, and the Sakarnen would belong to Lanfear, to Mierin Eronaile, until the day she died; only a madman would try to take that from her. Only a madman would try, and would fail. 

Because Egwene had found it, and she didn’t even know that someone could change its form, but her eyes had located it in the only ornament she wore.

A ring made of silver, which shone on her left hand.

A wedding ring.

And when Lanfear gave her a knowing sideways glance, one eyebrow raised as if to ask if she dared say anything, the Amyrlin Seat straightened, puffed out her chest, looked her in the eye, chin high, and pretended not to be terrified .

“Lanfear.”

She smiled at her, knowing and almost fun, those knowing eyes resting on the ribbon she had tied in her hair . 

“Little Egwene.” Her eyes roamed over her, assessing. “You’ve discovered something today — unearthed it from a long-forgotten window… Almost died to hold it, of course, but still weaved it.” 

She cocked her head to the side, a small smile on her lips. That look again, Eugene noticed; the same from that room in Cairhien. The one that made her want to come closer. Ask. Listen . The one that was almost more dangerous than any other, leaving her embarrassed enough to almost fidget in her own clothes.

Approval.   

“Did you know it was possible?” She asked, unable to keep the question in. The curiosity. The hunger. “A weaving to undo Balefire.”

She laughed, a loud, crystalline sound.

“Haven’t I told you already?!” She whispered. “ Everything  is possible.” She winked at her, the smile crowing in her lips. “Don’t die yet, Egwene al’Vere. Some more centuries, and you’ll be the finest Aes Sedai of this age.” 

Inside her, that heat multiplied again. 

Yearning for more.

“Besides, if you die, they’ll make Cadsuane the Amyrlin Seat, and killing her would be more trouble than it’s worth.” She made a little noise, as if the thought irritated her, and Egwene’s eyes widened slightly at the flippancy with which she spoke. “Best for us if you stay in that shiny seat of yours, huh?!”

The words made her tense; like if those eyes were on her again, inside her, seeing everything and more.

“Why does it matter to you who sits on the throne?”

“Everything matters to me, Egwene al’Vere.” Lanfear smiled, one of those wide smiles that made her seem even more dangerous, her eyes seeming to darken slightly, and Egwene forced herself to remain unmoved, to not let the fear spread in to the air. “You’ll learn that too, if you live long enough.”

And then she turned her eyes to the man at her feet, not giving her another glance of attention.

“And hello to you, Mazrim Taim,” she whispered to him, standing exactly where he had fallen and struggled to his feet; she had stripped him of his title on purpose, Egwene knew, and it had made anger flare in his eyes. Lanfear bent slowly, the white-red dress covering her legs, and Egwene felt her heart skip a beat as she tapped her fingers against his chest and then spoke, the words carrying a coldness, as if she had imbued a laugh with them, a dangerous amusement shining in her blue eyes. “Are you the latest pawn my father has chosen for our little game?”

~

Rand al'Thor had accepted his fate.

He had accepted his fate long ago, but he had still felt a pang of frustration at having to abandon the battlefront, away from the open field, even though he had much to offer the world, so as not to exhaust himself fighting Trollocs and Dreadlords and risk weakening himself too much for the final confrontation that only he could carry out.

He would be facing the Dark One very soon, Rand blinked, standing before Shayoul Ghul.

He had done everything he needed to do before this. He had prepared the world for the Last Battle. He had signed a peace treaty, ensuring that the world would not be destroyed after it was over, that he would leave a legacy behind. He had fulfilled the prophecies. He had given his body, his strength and his will to the world.

He had done what he needed to do.

And then he dragged himself away from the battlefield, and said goodbye to those he loved.

Egwene had hugged him, her face pressed against his chest, and Rand had blinked as she’d twisted that ribbon into her hair, her eyes shining at him. Moiraine and Nynaeve had squared their shoulders and opened their chests, biting back any emotion when he’d thanked them for all they’d done over the past few years.

They had done a lot, Rand knew.

They had done a lot for the dragon, and they had done a lot for the boy from Two Rivers.

The boy from Two Rivers who had grown up surrounded by two friends whom he loved very much and who shared his joys, his sorrows and his adventures until the end, until the last.

Perrin had pulled him into a hug, preparing to enter flesh and blood into Tel'aran'rhiod , stepping through a portal that Rand himself had made at his request, and their arms still had the same smell, the same comfort and the same firmness with which they had made around a campfire in a life that almost seemed past now; when they were just two boys from Two Rivers, watching their friend try and beat luck.

Mat had pulled him into a tight hug and pressed his lips to his forehead in one of those smacking kisses that were so characteristic of him, and neither of them had recognized the way their vision had, for a moment, seemed blurry.

It was the end, Rand sighed.

They had reached the finish line.

At this part of the adventure, they could not follow him.

Still, he did not fight alone, Rand knew.

He carried the weight — the weight that sank into his shoulders, almost making him lean forward slightly — but he could not sustain the war alone.

The army will travel to Trakan'dar,  to fight next to him , Aviendha taking command of the channelers in Shayol Ghul, protecting the path there, Wise Ones and Aiel channelers holding the shields in Shayol Ghul.

The Aiel would defend the path of Car'a'Carn, even if the sky fell upon them.

His people.

His people, until he was no more and beyond.

The Dragon armies rose in Merrilor, fighting against the tides of Chaos, led by the last king of Melkior, by the man whose sword shone and cut as brightly as the honor he lived with and had lived with every day; by the man who had stood, fought, and honored himself, when he had stumbled, and risen again. Beside him, the queen of Andor and Cairhien commanded channelers, archers, and spearmen, fighting to ensure that there would be a kingdom to return to; a lioness, for the lion throne.

Egwene, Rand knew, would fight wherever she was needed.

Wherever she had gone after saying goodbye to him.

The Aes Sedai would rise under her arms, under her hands, a front of many colors, united under a single woman, living walls of raw power, and Egwene would fight. She would fight until he couldn't anymore, until his last drop of strength, because that was who she was.

And Mat would do whatever it took, what only he knew and could do, taking command of the Forces of Light, guiding them in one last battle. Leading them, one leader among thousands. One leader of thousands; the smarter the mind, the more capable , in this Era. 

Perrin Aybara ran through the Dreams, defending it, watching his back.

Lanfear would run with him for a while, Rand knew, hunting Slayers — the Dark One’s killers — in the domain that was more hers than any other’s, the moon following the wolf, until she had to take to the heavens and return to reality.

He had seen her one last time before he entered where she could not; and she was the last line of defense, a blank shadow at the door of a cave as he entered the Pit of Doom.

One last barrier, in case all others proved insufficient.

The only one he trusted to make sure she would guard the door long enough for him to have time to do what he needed to do.

“I’ll be here when you get back.” She had told him, her eyes shining with confidence—more confidence than he felt himself. More confident that he could do what he needed to do than he felt himself. “I’ll find you.” She had said, stroking his face, her fingers stained with blood; he wasn’t the only one who had moved from one battlefield to another, he knew. “I’ll find you, cariad .”

He didn’t ask where she came from, or whose blood was on her hands. It didn’t matter, Rand had decided. It didn’t matter because it was war, and he had learned the hard way to see the world differently.

She had accused him of not doing so, in that dream, so long ago.

When he had called her a monster and she had called him a child.

He was, in a way, Rand had realized the more he had become the man he needed to be, and they had both been correct in their assertions. He had been a naive, arrogant child — who saw the world as divided into good and evil; into black and white — and she was a monster, cruel and mean, and jealous.

He could no longer be that. 

How could he, if he himself no longer fit into any of those colors?!

Maybe the world was gray.

And maybe it would be okay if they fell into that middle ground.

Maybe it was okay for him to have loved a monster and be loved back by her.

Maybe it was okay for a boy from Two Rivers to face the darkness.

It was his destiny, after all.

He was bleeding, he realized.

The wound in his side had opened up and blood dripped down into his boot and onto the dark rocks of Shayol Ghul below. Another one, Rand realized; another prophecy, another vision, to show him the path he must follow.

It was time, that voice echoed loudly in that dark cave.

It is time. Let the task be undertaken.

He was calm, he realized; for the first time since he had accepted— since had received — the burden, he was calm.

He was ready, Rand straightened his body.

He took a step forward.

He was ready.

~

Moridin had one last job to do; one last battle to fight.

One last enemy to face.

One last kill to take.

Elan Morin Tredonai knew he was going to lose and the knowledge made him smile.

~

Mierin Eronaile had been playing a game for a long time.

A game of cat and mouse.

A father and daughter game.

Hide and seek.

A game that had begun in whispers at the edge of her bed, when she had not known who he was — who he would be to her — or even known that she was playing; when he had called her to him and then called what was hers, until she had said ‘yes’. A game played with the world. A game played in the dark, in the vastness of darkness in that dreamless sleep. A game played in the mind.

A game of Chosen.

A game, to dethrone a king.

M’Hael was not, by far, his best move.

The best had been, undeniably, Ishamael, and he had used it in his first move, managing to drag her into the game. Lanfear supposed that, disregarding him, since he was never meant to be part of the game really, only to lure her into it, his best move had been Graendal. Cunning, dangerous, and beautiful, but easily angered and possessed of a pride that only held her back, she was a shadow of herself; a sample, made by his hands, of what she was before him and proof of how far he had taken her.

Chosen solely to confront her, a threat to her title, made to make her jealous ; to test whether she was sure of herself, her place and what she meant to him, enough to keep playing while someone else tried to win her father attention.

It had been a game of wills, choosing each of them, and each of them had fulfilled their purposes, responding to words that had not been said, provocations and confrontations made in the mind and only in her mind.

She had replied Graendal with Rhavin . 

Just the right amount of manipulator.

Smart enough to ally with her, to form a temporary alliance with her and Ishamael in the early years.

Beautiful.

Pleasant.

Seductive.

An affront to him, who shared her attention with Ishamael and hated that it was that the consequence of dragging him into their little game. Her father was a jealous being. He didn't like sharing; sharing her appreciation and her devotion. He was also too manipulative to say the words, to break the facade, so he did what he did best and pretended it didn't bother him that she loved Elan more than she loved him, that it didn’t irritate him that she loved Lews more than the darkness.

That It didn't bother him that her loyalty was never guaranteed.

That he know she would leave him, if she had Lews; if she had Elan.

That even three thousand years later, after spending so much time trapped in the darkness with only him to keep her company, she still loved Elan and Lews — and now, Rand — more than she loved him and that it didn't matter how much power he gave her — you are a bottomless pit , he had whispered to her in those early days; a bottomless pit, whose hands always want more, more and more and never have enough, never are satisfied , —, he still hadn't offered her enough, he still hadn't given her enough to satisfy her hunger, and he hadn't managed to make her bend to him.

He had succeeded, in part, when he had made her beg him to save Rand.

Her father had ensured that if he lost, the freedom with which she had spent the last centuries, the game he had whispered to her, a condition for her to accept walking at his side, and which she had agreed to play, would be nothing more than a shadow in the past, and she would be permanently at his side; a shadow at the foot of his throne.

And he had reveled in it, in the taste of victory.

But he had taught her not to consider a battle won until the last player was dead, and she was still standing.

The game had gone on — a game of Sha’rah of many turns — for millennia, replayed over and over again until one of them actually won — it was hard to win a game against the dark, and no one had done it yet; it was part of the reason he enjoyed playing so much, delighting in the prospect of winning and the slight possibility of losing. It was hard to read his moves ; she had tried every means, every one of the three ways to win the game, and had lost, many, many times before starting again, but she had had years, and had learned.

She had learned to play in the most chaotic and destructive way.

She had learned to win by killing all of his opponent's pieces, rendering them useless, and was difficult , but she was still standing.

Rand wouldn't lose , Lanfear know.

Rand would not lose, and until the final confrontation between them came, that game between them continued, one move at a time. So she would not lose either. Because Rand would give everything he had to defeat the dark, the myth, so she would give everything she had to defeat the father. 

Because she wanted Rand.

She wanted that cabin in some forest somewhere, and she wanted those eyes looking at her the way they did, and she wanted to be loved by him, held by him, caressed by him. She wanted that life. She wanted that promise he had made to her with his eyes, and that ring that shone on her finger, and the love that shone in him, and the way he shivered at the mere touch of her hands.

Wanted to be allowed to love him.

And she also wanted that reward, wanted that prize.

She wanted to win .

She was Mierin Eronaile and Elan has always been right; she wanted everything.

That board was almost empty now.

She had stolen half the pieces herself, some long before the battle had actually begun — there was, after all, a reason why Rand had not had the pleasure of meeting Aginor, Balthamael, Belal, or even dear Asmodean, in this age — and the rest would be taken in battle.

Only Demandred and Mesaana remained, and she had hunted the last one three nights ago, leaving ash and nothing else behind; she had been running for a while now, hiding after that pleasant encounter in Tar Valon — haunted by what she had been doing in her dreams after that, a taste of what she would do to her when she got her hands on her — but it had still been almost too easy to find her and deal with her. 

Demandred would inevitably fall in battle, too proud to flee, too thirsty to win, and too weak to do so. He was too proud, too arrogant, to be defeated by her; no, he, she had already decided long ago, would be defeated by someone far beneath her.

So he would know he never stood a chance against her.

None of them did.

She was the only daughter among them, something that had, for years, permeated the minds of each of them — the doubt as to why she was called a daughter, why she was called a daughter but was not naeb'lis , and why no one else had received a similar honor — and they would never be close enough to where she was on that throne; she sat on the stairs, not in the breeze like all the rest, waiting to be noticed. Already had been. She had been seen from the second she had opened that hole and brought darkness into the world; from the moment she had found a father in the darkness of The Dark and brought him into the world, wrapped around his hand.

And then there was M’Hael, the last one he had Chosen.

After all, it was his turn to play — she had used her turn to save Rand — and he had used it to Choose another piece for the game — a pawn, for she had already taken his towers and knights and every move in Sha’rah’s was a move made of counted pieces — balancing the game again. 

She had helped with the war after all. 

Helped Mat understand and prepare for what was to come, to his place in the war — It had been so easy to put the Great Captains under compulsion, to ensure that the best of them would be at the front of the army... she wondered if he had figured that out yet —, loosing some in order to gain many. It was war, after all, and while the rest of the world was busy organizing their forces, she had been busy winning; war, as Mathrim had whispered to her as he shared strategies that he himself would soon put into practice to his possible surprise, was a game where one had to play smart, but also with cunning.

Play dirty .

And Lanfear really couldn't care less about killing a few soldiers here and there to ensure that she would win. It had always been about winning. That was what they never understood — not Lews Therin, not the Hall of the Servants, not even the other Chosen. Specially the others chosen. They had played at power. She had studied it; she was a scholar, after all, a researcher. And she had held it and learn how to bend it. Mold it like molten gold. 

This new world, was a world of chaos and blood and confusion, disguised under something else, and in this world, in this game, she thrived .

Mathrim would do a good job from now on. A thousand times better than all the others stupid generals who couldn't see a foot in front of their eyes. He would found out eventually. He didn’t know, not really, not yet. He didn’t know that the messages he had received during the Battle of Caemlyn had been crafted by her hand, not some overzealous officer. That the timely reinforcement at the river crossing had been her doing, not a miraculous stroke of luck. 

That the trap he had laid for Demandred, directing him to fight against the King of Melkior, had, in truth, been his trap, but that she made the most part of it possible — baited with his own cleverness. A king, not a queen. A man whose sword made a Chosen bleed, and who held a crown upon his head, above many, yet still far beneath her.

He would figure it out eventually. He always did. The man was too smart to be a tool.

That was the part she liked the most about him, she smiled. 

That was what made her actually like him. 

He would figure out the first part — he would be pissed for a while, probably, but then he would see exactly what she did, and it would be a strategy to his eyes and nothing else; and, if somehow he hold a grudge too far, she supposed she could, potentially, eventually , apologize to him, in honor of that friendship not recognized between them — and then he would figure out the rest.

That she directed Moiraine, ensuring that she followed Rand to Shayol Ghul. Made sure Rand knew that those seals so well protected by the Amyrlin Seat were nothing more than copies, derailing another of her father's strategies. That she even helped others, though they would never know — or if they did, would never admit it — twisting their paths just slightly, gently enough to seem as if it were their own choices all along. Egwene, that shining flame of stubborn will, had thought herself free in her defiance, in her supposed — now, not necessary — sacrifice. Lanfear had made sure she had the strength, the moment, the clarity — and then had stepped away, letting the pattern unravel exactly as she needed it to, guiding her where she needed her to be, before letting herself be seen and saving her — Rand liked her too much, and she had plans — making sure that she wouldn’t die for something so stupid as M’Hael. 

The Flame of Tar Valon indeed burned brightest when guided by a shadowed hand.

And it was just as interesting to her that the Flame of Tar Valon remained someone so easily manipulated. It was almost sweet, Lanfear blinked, that she didn’t think she could be. That where she was, what she’d gone through to get there, had toughened her enough to know when someone was manipulating her. Maybe it would work, Lanfear smiled slightly, for someone who wasn’t as good at it as she was. 

But Mat had gotten it right, more than anyone, and she was a manipulative bitch; she’d had years to learn how to be.

And that thirst for recognition…

Maybe, given a few centuries, the Amyrlin Seat would learn not to let her weaknesses show so much. Not to show how hungry she was, for food this Age couldn’t offer her, no matter how high she climbed the ladder of power. For knowledge that was dead and buried with every ingle one who from the Age of Legends that remained alive.

Everyone, except herself.

Even Rand would not know what she did; Lews didn’t, too much of a soldier to learn what she did.

She had a thirst for power that would never be satisfied by the White Tower; not really. The limits and limitations in this new age were pathetically low. They had barely reached the foundation of what had been the Age of Legends, and were dangerously close to considering it the pinnacle of everything. She didn’t knew that, poor girl.

Too much young to do so.

Sometime, when she had achieved all this age had to offer, Lanfear knew and smiled, she would give it up; give up this façade, pretending her eyes weren’t following every move she made, trying to see the weaves she used, trying to learn .

She would ask.

And she would teach, of course, because she was, after all, the Amyrlin Seat, and it was important for her to keep those who ruled the world under her control.

She would teach her, something.

Something small, but significant.

And until there, it had been and would be delightful easy to twist Egwene’s path, to mold her without ever truly touching her. A breath here, a nightmare there; subtle, much more subtle than that previous encounters of them — that had been a mistake, lost control, too affected, and had done nothing good; she learned with her mistakes, always did. 

Not direct pressure — no, not for this one, not now . 

She wouldn’t respond to domination, only to flattery wrapped in challenge. 

And Lanfear had given her both.

She'd fed her that bitter flame — the frustration at not being taken seriously, the ache of being young in a room full of ancient women pretending at wisdom, of being too powerful to be ignored but too new to be trusted. She had whispered doubts in Egwene’s dreams, crafted with precision, not as commands, but as questions: Why not you? Why not now? Why should Rand lead, and you follow? Why is Cadsuane still taken seriously when your weaves are stronger, faster, deadlier?

Cadsuane. 

That relic. That fossil with steel in her spine and a smirk too knowing by half. Lanfear had despised her from the moment she’d laid eyes on her — that confidence born not of power, but of surviving long enough to bully others into obedience. That wrinkled vulture with eyes like steel and hands full of ancient angreal. 

And the way she had spoken to Rand… 

That tone , the one that sounded like reason but smelled of command. 

Too bold.

Brave, yes, but stupid.

She had taken it upon herself to be his leash and no one would talk to him like that, and no leash or bracelets would be put in those arms she loved again.

Not anymore.

Not again.

She would destroy the world if she had to, to make sure she fulfilled what she told him the last time anyone dared to do it. That she had him, and he was safe. He was. With her, he would always be, for she would make sure of it. Would protect him, as he protect her, even thought she didn’t need him to.

She had considered tearing her apart once, had watched her from a mirror of polished obsidian, had even touched her dreams once — just enough to know what made her weep in private. But  she had her uses. She had bound the arrogance of the Dragon Reborn in shackles of age and disapproval, taught him humility as no Aes Sedai ever had. As she could not do it herself; not really. She was too affected by him to be able to. Too close. Loved him too much. Too emotional to be able to. Too arrogant, too. Her arrogance complemented his, and while there was much she could teach him, that , she could not.

So Lanfear had let her live. 

For now.

Plus, she was useful for dealing with Alivia.

The woman was too old, too insulting, and therefore perfect for dealing with a woman who was as old as her but had the personality of a teenager.

A very powerful teenager was a dangerous thing, and though she was no longer on her level now—the One Power and the True Power nearly swallowing her, nearly burying her in power if she didn’t have the control she had, fueled by the Sakarnen and that bottomless well of power he’d opened up for her—she could almost be a threat, and Lanfear didn’t like feeling threatened. 

She was useful to Rand, though, sincere and true in her hatred, and there was no reason to kill her before she’d served her purpose. Whatever role she was meant to play; Rand trusted her, liked her, in a way, so she’d been content to keep a close eye on her but not bite. 

Not until she had to. 

By then, Cadsuane would have done the heavy lifting, and it would be much easier for her.

It was a game of balance, after all, and Lanfear would not touch the ground.

There was beauty in that, in being the silent sculptor of victories others claimed.

There was power on it.

And she liked feeling powerful. 

So she played the game, slowly infiltrating all the places where more was needed than the Light could offer and know, and unbalancing the game to the Dark’s detriment.

A small charge for what he had done.

A fleeting consequence for what he had done to Elan.

For what he had done to Elan and for what he had done to her, lying that would let him remain dead and then forcing him to live again, torturing him with life, under an excuse that he was not Elan — Moridin, he had called him —and so he had not lied, had not deceived. 

For cheating in the game that was theirs and that they both played with the utmost honor they possessed — for pretending he had not done it and disregarding what she had earned and asked for as one of her moves — she had entered the war. Entered the war on the side of the Light, a move on the board, because he had used the one she loved most when he was a forbidden piece, a piece she had ensured that it would never be used again because he was so much more than a piece in a game, and it wasn't his turn to play.

Stole her turn.

So she had stolen something back from him.

The armies of darkness were potentially strong, it was true. Still, there was enough power in her with her own power and the Sakarnen to lay waste to an army alone if she wanted to, and though she didn’t plan on admitting that she had, Mat was in for a pleasant surprise when he face an army far smaller than he had expected. It wasn’t nearly what she’d expected to do with that beautiful sa’angreal burning on her finger when she’d first decided she wanted it, but she supposed she could use it for it, considering who had put it in her hand in the first place. 

Besides, anything that helped Rand win was gain, and he had surprised far more than just her when he’d entrusted her with such a great weapon.

Her father had tensed — or as tensed as something like him could get — when he’d realized there was something else empowering her besides him; someone else, empowering her, watching her back. For someone as old as he was, as experienced as he was, he had an ego so easily bruised… she wasn’t complaining, Lanfear smiled, after all, it was his irritation at the prospect of someone else — Rand, specifically — giving her what only he had offered thus far, of someone else treading on his turf, that had made him open that well of power even wider, let her touch more, dip deeper into it.

Offer her even more power, in an attempt to subdue the weight of the Sakarnen in her hand.

The meaning of the action behind it.

Subdue Rand.

It hadn't worked, and it had infuriated him even more, and as such, it was his turn to move next, and although it wasn't his best move since they started this game, a movement made out of anger and jealousy — he was not even a man, but still, was such a man; they were always the same, so predictable in their arrogance and egos — , it had worked well.

Raising a Chosen within that Dark Tower Rand had set up to train male channelers had undermined the public opinion of the Asha’man considerably and weakened — though not disastrously — the forces of the Dragon Reborn. And considering that she had chosen the Dragon over him this time, it had weakened her in that little game of theirs. She knew that was the part that really mattered; not the war, the impact of raising an enemy among the Dagon's allies, but a demonstration to a man who didn't even know he was playing a game, that Rand could choose her all he wanted, trust her with power, with him, but he was still the Dark One and could still reach where he knew not. 

Could still come between them.

He knew she didn’t like to lose. He knew she weighed every angle, and tested her with the prospect of winning, just to find out if she would stay by the Dragon’s side — if she would still love him if he were about to lose the battle — or if she would turn to him.  

She would, and Lanfear knew very well that it angered him even more when she had destroyed what was left of M'Hael's forces.

A sign, an affront, to her father that no matter who he chose, he would never choose someone as good as her. He would never raise a Chosen who was worth what she was; he could never make her lose at this part of the game, for he would never find someone who would balance the scales. He could never get between that ; no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't break that part, because Rad didn't know that he was poking the enemy more every second he loved her, didn't know what it meant to truly have her, and he could do whatever he wanted and it would never be recognized. 

Never seen.

He would never truly achieve what he wanted, no matter what he did, because she would still love Rand more than him, even if he made it look like he would lose the Last Battle.

Still, her father was the father of all politicians, and he knew how to weave ideals like no other could, and although it had not achieved its main purpose, it had still worked in his favor, undermining the general opinion of the battle; weakening hopes.

He knew how to weave everything .

Ideas.

Power.

Illusions.

Lies.

The only thing he didn't know how to weave was her heart.

Three thousand years of this game, she blinked, and he still hadn't learned the one thing that would make him win. That the more he tried to use Elan and Rand — Lews — against her, the more he tried to use that love he envied — that he wanted for himself, for he was darkness, and he wanted to control and possess everything — against her, to make her love him more than them, to make her leave them behind, the more she refused to lose.

She was going to win that game, Lanfear growled.

She was going to win a game with the dark, and she was going to dethrone the king.

She was going to dethrone the king, and take his place.

This was what he had made her his daughter for after all; that was the condition she had stipulated for accepting the call when he had first taken Elan into his possession.

Not to destroy the world— was there a worse purpose than that?! What good would it do her to destroy the world, when she could simply live in it, untouchable, stronger than anyone else?! — but to live on it and inherit.

And inherit, she would.

She would inherit that power.

The True Power.

She would inherit that power, for her father had made her a promise, at her bedside, ages ago. A promise and an invitation. An invitation to darkness. An invitation to a game between father and daughter. A game, to face the darkness and be seduced by it, taking her place at his feet and beside him — nae'blis, as he wanted her to be since the start  — forever, or beat him at his own game and inherit the power he distributed to his own. Hers , even if he himself one day no longer existed, clean and pure and no madness in her head when she weaves it. 

A game of power.

A game of heritage . 

A game of Choosing and a game of Waiting.

Time would conquer her, he had said; time conquers all things, all people. 

Time would make her love him, above all else, for she would discover that no one else understood her as he did. Accepted her as he did. Time would make her believe it. With each Chosen, each man and woman raised up in his name, pieces in a much larger game, raised up to prove to her that she was his in one way or another, to show her that there was nothing in the world that made her greater, strongest, than serving him, the closer she would come to giving in.

The closer she would be to him.

And the more he chose her above all others, the more he 'loved' her, luring her with power and promises, the more she would do it back. He would seduce her with his words, with his power, with his love; would win her over with his words and his promises, and with his presence. 

And she would give in.

She would give in to him.

But she hadn't.

Three thousand years, Lanfear blinked, and she had loved him — loved him, for he was seductive and captivating, and he had loved her, loved her without realizing it, falling into his own game, letting himself be seduced by her, one piece at a time, one move at a time — a smile, a word and a look of adoration, a warm, enchanted, passionate, surrendering whisper of ‘ father’; loving her more with each refusal of hers, with each resistance, each time she lost and still stood up, loving her the more she loved him, and getting entangled in his own game, losing himself in his own advantage, falling in love with the adversary he himself created — and she wanted to be loved, wanted, dear   — but had not given in.

She had not given in, because she was Mierin Eronaile .

She was proud and competitive and arrogant and ambitious and above all, she was her father's daughter long before she was indeed, and she had forced the Darkness to negotiate with her when she was still just a woman and would accept no less than what she had bargained for when she accepted the call; when she accepted the invitation to a game of love and autonomy, of inheritance and power and told him it was either that, or he could keep trying until she died. 

She had not accepted and would not accept anything less than everything. 

He had taught her well, after all.

He had taught her to play at his own level, and time conquered everything, it was true, but only a daughter could conquer a father.

It was, after all, the will of the Wheel that the children eventually surpassed their parents.

And when Rand al'Thor stepped through the doors of a dark cavern, preparing for the final struggle, to save or damn the world, Lanfear, Daughter of the Night, Daughter of Darkness, sat at its opening, waiting, guarding him, protecting him, and spoke to her father one last time.

Made one last move in that game of ages.

One last move on a board of blood, power and will.

“M’Hael you have chosen, Father.” She blinked, her lips curling into a smile, sweetness lacing the words. In the curve of her mind, he responded, drawn to the words, to the seduction that was hers, as naturally as she was drawn to him; to the power that was his. A knowing, familiar purr. “And M’Hael I have taken.” She glanced down at her hands still stained with the blood of the man in question, satisfaction bursting from her chest. “Then it is my turn to play. Here is my final move; here is my Chosen.”

She blinked, slowly, pushing herself forward slightly; preparing to say the words. A whisper, in an ear that had no shape. It was a risky challenge; an affront far greater than any that had been woven by Choosing those who went directly against those he had chosen.

“For the last move of this game of ours, to seduce me more than you do, to hold my trust and my life… To hold my heart, my love and my loyalty… To represent me against you, to love me more than you do and to be loved by me more than you are… ” 

To destroy you, I choose the one you cannot take on your own.

The one you can't seduce.

To win the game, I choose to anchor myself, to trust myself, to the one piece you cannot move; the one who has resisted you completely, all the way here. The one I love more than I do you. 

Lanfear smiled into space, fangs flashing. 

“I choose Rand al’Thor!” 

To dethrone you, father, I move the king.

Where she stood, Lanfear felt the world shrink around her as he understood exactly what she had done. What she had done by choosing the man who would defeat him — because she knew Rand, trusted in Rand, and he wasn't going to lose —, his natural enemy, a man — a destiny — that he could neither escape nor control, to represent her. 

The man he had bound her life to, as penance for her loving him more than she loved himself. — a petty penalty, one he hadn't thought through when he did it, driven by anger, guided by the desire to humiliate her as much as she had humiliated him, humiliated that bond between them, by asking him to save him for her, and that if he had thought, if he hadn't been as angry as he had been, furious, he wouldn't have done it; would know better than to do so, risk the revenge she would surely desire.

The man he could not refuse or destroy on his own, for the Wheel would not allow it, and the man he had helped her save. 

The man with who he tried to defeat her, tried to win the game; to bound her on to his fate.

To heal him, so he could be with her if he could defeat him — a fate that, in arrogance, he thought not to be possible — or for her to remain his, if he lose — a destiny he was supposed to conquer, not force upon her, and yet he had tried to do so. Tried to steal another move from her. To cheat her in the game, taking advantage of the situation to charge her more than he should have, exploding in his own anger.

A last gift from father to daughter, he had said, a chance for her to be happy.

A lie .

But happy she would be, Lanfear smiled.

For she trusted Rand al’Thor more than she trusted the Dark; enough to risk her life oh his hands, for once he trusted her enough to risk the world — his life — on hers, and she know his heart and his soul and he would not lose. 

For she loved him, more than she loved the Darkness, and he loved her more than the Darkness could. He had said it, without even knowing how important those words were to her; without knowing that, if he had not already done so at that moment, he would have held her heart in his hands. That for three thousand years she had heard the same words from the wrong mouth, and it were lies that her father told but they sounded like the truth, but when he spoke them, there was no hint of dishonesty or deceit or machination, just the truth and it made her love him more, strengthening her, and it made her want to win even more. 

To prove to her father that he was wrong . 

That she could and she would win.

That he — Rand — did it.

Understood her more that anyone else.

Trusted her more than anyone else.

Loved her more than anyone else.

More than him.

For Rand al’Thor would defeat the darkness, defeat the Dark One where she could not, and she would defeat him where no one else could, for only a daughter could usurp a father.

The air pulsed in the dark like breath — slow, deep, waiting.

He came to her not as power, not as fire, not as form, but as presence . She knew him by the way the world seemed to pull inward around her, by the familiar hush in her bones — like the way the world had quieted the first time she'd said yes .

Lanfear did not move.

She stood at the lip of the cavern, blood drying on her skin, the True Power winding like silk through her fingertips — and when he arrived, it was as though the dark itself softened around her. As though it welcomed her.

“You wear your words well, my daughter.” He said, a ripple across her spine, words salty and angry, disguised as calm and subtlety. “Like a snake .”

She smiled faintly. 

There it was.

The offense.

The cold, silent anger at her actions.

For her audacity.

“You taught me so; I learned it under your shadow.”

A pause. Then a deep sound — low and velvety. Laughter. Not mockery. Not menace. Amusement. Something warmer.

“You were always a clever child. Clever… and audacious.”

That last word struck something deeper. She felt it like a brush across the inside of her ribs. Not pain. Recognition. The smile appeared on her lips as naturally as everything else.

“Isn’t that why you liked me in first place, father?”

He did not answer at once.

There was no need. In the stillness between them, the truth pressed in like gravity.

The darkness was not cold tonight, even if he was angry. It breathed with her. A rhythm. A heartbeat that pulsed in time with hers — vast, formless, endless — but attuned to the small defiance that was Mierin Eronaile.

She was a bottomless pit, after all, and he yearned to fulfill her.

To be the one to do it.

To claim her to his side.

“I liked you, Mierin.” He said at last, voice like honey and iron. Mierin, not the woman he made of her. Not the name he gave her, but the one she had when she found him. “Because you looked at me and did not look away. Dared to demand me.”

She breathed him in — not the scent of him, for he had none — but the weight of him. The texture of his attention. It wrapped around her like warm silk laced with knives, suffocating and seductive all at once. She had missed him, in a way that was not quite longing, not quite love, and yet contained both.

“You are not meant to like.” She whispered. “To feel.”

“And I am not meant to love.” 

“But you do.” Her voice was hoarse. Almost broken. Satisfied and dangerous, a mixture of what she was, what he was. “You loved me, and you tried to win me.”

“I still do.”

That stole the air from her, even thought she had been the first to say the words. To imply it. Not because it surprised her — not now; not after so much time playing that game — but because it was spoken with actual words.

A confession.

One that she knew it wasn’t, for once, a lie.

“You shouldn’t.” She said. And she meant it. “You shouldn't love something that wants to replace you.”

“I made you want to replace me.”

“You made me, to love you.” She corrected. “To kneel to you. You just never thought I would love you and still want your power.”

That, finally, made him laugh again — softer this time, like cloth torn in the dark.

“You are even more mine for that.” He said. “More beautiful. More complete. Perfect. My perfect daughter.” If he had form, Lanfear knew he would twist his lips as she always did, rolling the words on her tongue as if they were a weaving of their own, entangling themselves with whoever she directed them at. “You will never scape me, Lanfear, you are made of me.”

Her lips trembled; It was no lie. Lanfear was his. Made by him. For him. A corporeal figure for what he was, a manifestation of what he could not make flesh. But Mierin Eronaile was hers. 

Hers, and only one other person; no one else’s. 

She couldn’t tell him that, though. It would only make him angrier, and though he masked his anger with affection, she still recognized that cold hint of danger in the air; a silent warning that she doubted that he even knew that he was emanating for her, warning her to be careful with him, without even realizing it. He had started doing it a while ago now. A few hundred years ago, back in that darkness. Subconsciously alerting her when she were stepping too far out of line, and he would react if she didn't change the way she was talking.

She turned slightly, but not away. Never away.

“Does it matter, then?” She asked, soft. “If I win?”

There was a pause.

“No.” He said. “Not to me.”

That startled her. 

The truth and lies in the words.

She blinked, her smile faltering.

“Liar.”

He laughed.

“I’m the father of all them, after all.” 

“You cheated. Stole my turn.”

Lanfear chose her words carefully; it would be unwise to remind him in detail of the move she had made, charging him for what he had done to Elan. She did not mention his name. She knew he knew exactly who she was talking about. Just as well as she knew that mentioning it would anger him. 

Her father was temperamental in his defeats. 

He did not like being confronted with the names of those she loved more than him through her mouth.

“Did you expect something different from me?”

“Not really. Surprised me that you played by the rules to begin with. But I can see what happened now… You got desperate, didn't you? Finally, finally, realized what I did while you tried to erase everyone else I loved from me...” She smiled, a wild, dangerous shadow. “That's my favorite part of the game, father: you do not know how to love, yet you love me fiercely, dangerously. I made you love me. Because I know how. And that makes me real in you, and it makes you weak .”

He made a sound in response. Something dangerous. Like a growl, like claws dragging on metal. A trickle of fear ran down her spine, like ice on her spine. A father, he was, but he was more. So much more. Too dangerous. Too inhuman. Something unnameable, untrustworthy, dark and formless, without feelings and without remorse. She could talk, say whatever she wanted to and he would never shut her up, never really hurt her, but it was smart to speak carefully. 

She had learned to speak carefully. 

To circle the beast, to pet it until it got used to it and not to poke it all at once.

A daughter, she was, and respect still had to be the same, even in the face of the win.

“You don’t know how to love.” She said, again. Sweeter this time; in that voice she had learned to use to speak to him. Manipulating him like he had manipulated her; like he had taught her to do. Soaking up her words with emotions, words that weren’t lies, but weren’t entirely the truth either. “But you tried. That’s the tragedy of us, Father. That you tried. And that I loved you for it.”

He didn’t answer for a long time.

And then, quietly, with a tenderness that made her ache, the words were said.

“Would you believe me, if I said I actually want to watch you win?”

That undid her even though she had told herself that she wouldn't cry. That she wouldn't believe a word this time. That she would see him for who he truly was and nothing more. It seemed, Lanfear blinked, that three thousand years was still too short for a daughter to learn not to feel her father's words and when the tears welled, unfallen, she let them burn behind her lashes. Didn’t try to pretend otherwise. She knew he would see anyway; it was never the eyes that saw her after all. 

There were no eyes in the darkness and no body before her, only a darkness that spoke in her mind and whose voice she knew as if it were her own, but he knew her and her voice cracked when she spoke.

“I would. But I’d think it was another lie too.”

Another silence — but this one was gentler. Not heavy. 

Not angry either. 

His fury was fickle with her. In the early years it had frightened her, made her tense, unsure of how he would react to her; to something she had said to him, in the darkness of her mind. She had learned to read that too. To know when that feeling he was not capable of feeling, but which she had forced out of him — torn out of him, made an oasis grow in a lifeless desert — exploded inside him, spilling over into who he was, and the fury was swallowed up by it, until he sounded calm and passionate and not a liar, before his nature broke through again and the fury and danger and evil took hold of him once more.

Just sad .

“You would be glorious.” He said at last. “In victory. You always were. But If your Chosen is capable… You would be glorious. A goddess. I would love you, even. Even.”

“You already do.” She said. It was the truth. It was the only truth he could lie about as much as he wanted, that still wouldn't make her doubt. She made sure it wasn't possible. She had three thousand years to do it. To ensure that it was true, even if he himself didn’t know if he was lying, trying to deceive her with another promise, or not.  “That’s why I will win.”

The voice in her head filled with that strange sweetness. 

“You are indeed magnificent, Mierin Eronaile. No creation of mine could surpass what I made of you.”

It wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t softness — he wasn’t meant to be soft, to be tender — it wasn’t love, per se, but it was something. Something that had been with her for a long, long time, wrapped itself inside her, around her, bathing her in it until she was so used to it that she missed it when it wasn’t there. That made that part of her ache when the seal was undone and there was light and a world around her again, and not just her father’s voice in her mind, his caress, in the darkness.

Something that sometimes made her want to cry and sometimes made her laugh. Something that held her in the darkness of that sleepless sleep, a feeling in her chest and in her mind, warming her from the cold. Something that made her want to win and something that almost made her want to lose, sometimes.

It wasn't love, because he couldn't love.

Not really.

But it was something.

Something uniquely hers .

She didn't tell him the words she wanted to say. 

You didn't made me. 

I made myself.

But her voice tasted of power, pride, and a little pain —   like a child, she realized, crying to her father about something only he could fix — all wrapped up in that something that wasn't love, but it was , a confession, a goodbye, and a demand all at once.

Two simple words.

“Checkmate, daddy .”

His laughter echoed loudly in her ears, even though he wasn't beside her, light and pleasant.

Wild.

Seductive.

Dangerous.

Familiar.

And when his words reached her ears soon after, tinged with ferocity and knowledge and pride, was a smile she offered to the nothingness that surrounded her.

“Well played, baby girl... well played.”

Chapter Text

Mathrin Cauthon knew something was wrong the second Mierin Eronaile — no longer Lanfear, he remembered; the being who had given her the title was trapped again, after all — approached over to Rand al’Thor’s limp body, lying on a pyre, three women surrounding him as the prophecies had said they would, and pressed her hand against his chest, where his heart no longer beat.

It had been strange how unchanged she had seemed, how calm she had been since when Rand's body had been found at the door of that cave, one arm wrapped around his enemy and his hand clutched in hers, his eyes nearly closed, but Mat had thought it was just exhaustion — or maybe it was because for the first time, she seemed at a loss for what to do; what to say.

Rand was beyond cure, they all knew, even if they had tried.

Mat had cried his own tears.

He had known the second she had come to get him, to take him to him, that it was the last time he would see him, and he had wept for a friend he loved, swallowing hard as Moiraine whispered to a Rand who could no longer hear that he had done well — Light, Mat had gasped, he had done so well. He had done so well and it wasn't fair that he could not live the world he had given everything for; that he couldn’t live happily with the woman he loved. That he couldn’t live — that he had done very well and that he could rest, that he finally could rest, the Aes Sedai herself fighting back tears.

He had cried as he said goodbye, and he had cried as he saw others doing the same, as he heard his father's words — You did well. Oh, my boy... you did so well — as he lit a funeral pyre for the boy from Two Rivers, for the boy from Two Rivers who had saved the world, and shed his own tears.

Everyone he loved, Mat had realized.

Everyone he loved and only a few others, standing before his pyre, in a world that only existed because he had given it his all, honoring him one last time. Honoring every part of Rand al’Thor.

The boy, the shepherd, the king, the Dragon, but mainly the man.

And what a magnificent man he had become, Mat had blinked. He was the consort of a queen now, and luck was on his side, but of all that he could achieve, of all that was yet to come to him, he hoped to become half the man Rand al’Thor had been.

Honest, honorable, truthful and brave.

To love and be loved, as he had been.

Truly and incorrigibly, undeniably, sincere.

The woman he loved, the woman he loved more than anyone else, had cried too. A single tear that had fallen down that beautiful, stone-like face before she disappeared while the fire still burned him, her eyes giving his body one last look before she vanished into thin air, but it had weighed heavily as if she had sobbed.

No one had ever seen her vulnerable, Mat remembered.

The only one she trusted enough to do so, was the dead man on the funeral pyre, and something inside him had wanted to come to her defense when he caught the surprised looks being throw at her. When they realized — too late, too late, too late — that she really, really loved him.

She had done it, Mat had realized.

She had done what she had told him.

She hadn't betrayed him.

She had stayed by his side until the end, holding his hand as they tried to heal him, as he died , his fingers gripping hers with all the strength he had left in his body, a sigh on his lips as she pressed her lips against his forehead and stroked his hair. 

She had stood by his side, and Mat would make sure the legends remembered her not just as what she had been before, but as what she had been when it mattered.

Lanfear, Daughter of the Night.

Mierin Eronaile.

Forsaken.

Chosen.

Loved.

And faithful to those she loved.

It had surprised him that she hadn’t pulled away when he’d worked up the courage to hold her, but not too much. She’d looked small in his arms, thin, her white dress floating in the air, all the stain and blood of battle gone, clean and perfect, unblemished as she’d always been. Small but still powerful, her hands wrapped tightly around him, nails scraping against his back as he held her — the only one there who could do it, now that Rand was… gone; the only one who could hold her, so she wouldn’t have to watch it alone. The only one she liked enough to allow.

He would have liked it, Mat knew.

He would have liked her to have someone.

So that she wouldn't have to bear it alone.

Rand would have liked it, but he hadn't done it for him.

He had done it for her.

He did it for her, because she was magnificent, and he liked her, and would dare to call her a friend, and before the fire had been set and burst forth, swallowing the red bush, swallowing the king, she said goodbye.

She had whispered to him; to ears that no longer heard.

His still did, and inside his mind, Mat had felt that twisted line of distrust and recognition stretch, unwind, remembering — trying to place the words — trying to understand a mystery, as she whispered to him again, bringing her fingers to her own hand before removing and wrapping his fingers on that ring she had always worn, long and golden, a golden line across three fingers, that would burn away in the fire.

He had heard the words, even if they had been no more than a whisper, and he knew she had let him hear them. He knew she had allowed the One Power to draw the words into his ears and no other.

Thank you for keeping me company among the stars.

Thank you, for never letting me walk alone.

A courtesy, for a friend.

For that was what they were.

“Goodbye, for now, Mathrin.” She whispered to him, her thin, delicate hand resting on his arm before moving a little lower, finding his hand. “When you finally began your way to that conquest of yours… I’ll find you.” Her lips curled into a small smile. That old, dangerous one. “Told you I would toss the dice at your favor, after all.”

Mat frowned, his eyes following as her dress fluttered in the air, a shadow as she moved.

The words came to him, though he hadn’t seen her speak them.

“Told you I would toss the dice and win.”

And he knew, when her eyes met his one last time, right before she disappeared, a tear in her eyes and that dangerous, familiar, winner glow in them, before she winked at him, and words similar to the ones she had whispered to Rand echoed in his mind in a previous encounter, in an open field where later a war would break out, that he was right in his assumption.

Mathrim Cauthon knew .

And it was no longer tears, but a smile that graced his face for the rest of the night as the fire crackled and he watched it take away the friend of a friend of his own.

~

She had waited for him at the door of that cave, as she had said she would.

Him, and the man he carried beside him, supported by one arm.

She sat between them as the cave disappeared behind them, as the world readjusted itself, bending and adjusting to what he had done.

Between them, one last time.

The nexus.

She sat between them, between the two souls she loved and had loved more than darkness, and for the first and only time, Mierin Eronaile confided in the two men she had loved, the rules of a game played between a father and a daughter. She confided the game and the prize, for Rand had accepted her more than any other, and he deserved the truth for he had loved her enough to listen and to accept , and she no longer needed to lie, nor maintain a mask, because he saw her for what she was and only asked her to help him understood what he couldn't.

Loved her.

Saved her , as she had felt in him as she spoke.

So she told Rand al'Thor what made her a daughter and what she had inherited from her father, and told Rand al’ Thor that she had trusted her life to him, as he had trusted his to her, and that after more than three thousand years of playing, holding the line like she did in the edge of her bed when darkness tried to conquer her entirely for the first time, she had finally stopped gambling.

She had won and had not given in .

And then she asked him to believe her when she said that she would never leave him, never run from him either. 

That she used to have a hunger in her that was never satiated, but that for the first time in her entirely life, she was satisfied. That she had a hunger for power, to be powerful and to be untouchable, but that she had an eager hungry to be loved , and that if he believed her one more time, if he still would choose her over the world, she would choose him over power and would never leave him behind.

Would satisfy herself with what she already had and do not look for more where it should not be touched.

He had not let go of her hand.

So, when it became clear that he would not let her go, she turned her face to the other side and told that other man that she loved him, that she would love him forever, and that she was happy to be able to hold his hand, so that he wouldn't have to die alone, so that he wouldn't be alone, like he had never let her be.

And in doing so, the latter confided to her, a move on a game of his own.

“Well…” She had mumbled and laughed, blinking up at the sky that was opening up, blue and clear, when he finished speaking.

When Elan Tedronai explained his latest move in a game of his own.

Her lips had parted in a smile, a bell-like laugh, as she turned to the man on her right side — to the soul that resided within, that she had once smiled against his shoulder — and Rand had smiled at her where she stood — on his left side; always on his left side, where he had lost a hand, and she had taken its place, becoming it to him.

To the man who had worn another face — his face — in her dreams, in their goodbye, so that if her husband won, she could associate this one with only one man.

“Guess it’s a good thing he made you that handsome."

~

Rand al'Thor was dead.

Rand al’Thor was alive

Saidin was not alive with him, and it was relief he had felt when he realized it. Then something inside him told him to want, and he had thought of the pipe he had taken from his pocket being lit. And it were.

Willing. 

As a pyre containing his body burned below, Rand al’Thor raised his pipe to his lips and thought about ‘wanting’. About what it was like to have a will and to be able to live according to it.

About being able to make what he wanted real.

Then Mierin Eronaile grimaced in disgust as she appeared beside him, the air twisting around her as she pushed her way in, snatching the pipe from his mouth with those bold, thin, dangerous fingers, and Rand smiled — he knew she hated the smell — opening his arms to let her sink into his chest, listening silently as a crowd sang a funeral song of the Borderlanders, watching over a body whose soul was alive.

It was almost funny, he let his lips part into a small smile, that a woman who looked like that, small in his arms, had played a game with the Dark One and beaten him at his own game. It should have disturbed him more that it had. That she had not only considered it, but played it and won. Perhaps, Rand blinked, what was left of his morality had died with his original body, for though it had disturbed him to know that she had done it, that she could touch and draw upon the True Power at any moment, it had not been enough for him to choose the world over her. 

The world had not been enough, Rand blinked. 

Not when he had been the dragon and not now, and deep inside him, a selfish, arrogant part of himself felt not fear but pride . 

Pride in what she had done. 

In who she had conquered.

She was, indeed, a force of nature, Rand thought, watching silently as she shifted on his chest; the only woman he could think of who could actually make the Dark One love. 

Still as power-hungry as ever, he knew. 

Appeased, for now. 

But still. 

He knew she meant the words when she said them to him, standing in front of a cave that no longer existed. He could feel the sincerity in her words. 

The truth. 

But he also knew who she was, and Mierin Eronaile could not sit still for long. She was ambition dressed in flesh and pride molded in bone and she was beautiful as she did it; perfect, to herself and to him. A deep well, the Dark One had called, insatiable , and Rand knew how much that definition hurt — and how true and unfair it was at the same time.

Because she wanted it all, yes. 

But he knew why.

He knew why, even if she herself wasn't ready to acknowledge it yet, pushing the feeling and the realization down inside her every time it started to surface, weighing down on her chest. She wanted it because she had loved — and not been loved in the same way, as completely as she had, in return. Because she had been abandoned with nothing, except her power, and she feared it that it would abandon her too; leave her with nothing , as the darkness had lied to her that it was all she had and that it was what she was without power. 

Because she was the most dangerous woman in the world, the strongest woman in the world, and she was so afraid of being alone that no amount of power seemed enough to make her feel safe.

Not anymore, Rand blinked. 

Never again. 

Not with him. 

He would love her the same way. Just as much. He would love her until there was no doubt in her mind or in anyone else’s that if it was love — belonging — she hungered for, then with him, she would never starve; that whenever forever was, he would love her.

“So…” He murmured, when she shifted her body enough for him to know she was ready. That she was ready to leave Elan behind and move on. That they were ready to go. “Where do we go now?”

She smiled at him, her eyes shining in that satisfied way.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Right now?” Rand huffed, pulling his clothes tighter over his body and holding back the unsaddled horse that insisted on pulling away. “I want to find a bed, take a bath, and sleep for a long time.” He smiled at her knowingly, reaching into his pants pocket, and said the words just for the pleasure of finding out what answer she would give. “You know… ease.”

She threw her head back and laughed, a satisfied laugh that almost sounded like bells.

“Oh, Rand al’ Thor…” She purred, twisting his name in that way he liked, and Rand smiled with satisfaction because he had won, he had defeated the dark,had lived  and she was looking at him that way once more. It had not been the last time. “Haven’t you learned nothing ?!” She blinked at him, giving him one of those wild smiles. “You shouldn’t expect any ease with me. ” Her smile grew, widening even further. “Besides… That’s not really what you want…” She stepped a little closer, her hand resting on the frightened horse’s fur, her lips resting on his. “You want to live."

Rand laughed against her lips, and it was joy and satisfaction and relief that surrounded him.

“South then?” He murmured, low and fond, soft and yet a hint of teasing on his lips. “I’m sure with my negotiating skills, and your skills to cheat and steal, we can get ourselves a cabin in some forest, until you get tired and want something more exciting.”

She raised a cheeky eyebrow at him, provocative, sensual, and knowing.

Oh, there'll be excitement enough in that cabin.

Rand felt his lips curl into a knowing, satisfied smile of his own, pulling the horse closer and preparing to ride; he wanted a saddle, reins. Her slim waist fit perfectly in his hands as he pulled her onto the horse, and he circled her carefully, letting her press her back against his chest. He was a little tall now than he had been before. No more than a few inches, but it still made her feel a little smaller against him, her head bumping against his chest as the horse slowly began to trot.

Rand let his lips brush against her head, a quick, fleeting kiss as she struggled with the horse's reins, trying to steer it in the right direction — she had always been a terrible rider, a remnant of a life long ago. 

It was a good plan, he decided. 

Eventually, inevitably , she will grow tired of that cabin, as they both knew she would, and when she does, he will not let her go on alone to whatever impossible conquest she determined she wanted. 

She was a conqueror herself, he knew. 

She liked the mystery, the adventure; she was something made of life herself and lived for the emotion. 

The thrill.

And he supposed that she was correct about him too, Rand smiled as she let out a very unladylike curse and finally managed to get the horse running, giving up and using the One Power to do it, because for the first time, he had the answer for that question about the kind of man that he was. 

If he was the type who settle down in a cabin in the woods.

Rand smiled again, wide and honest.

True.

He really, really wanted to live.