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Chapter Text

"You will do no such thing!" Moiraine says incredulously and with a warning in her tone when she abruptly turns around to face him upon the uttering of his words. The fabric of her dress slams against her legs from the sudden movement, protesting against her as much as she does with him.

Rand has his hands in his pockets, his expression casual as he stands in her chambers in Malkier just as he regularly does. He had already played this situation in his head over and over before it actually happened, trying to find the best words to tell her, and eventually failing. 

"I already promised," he says, as if that would do anything to ease her into the idea. 

The Yellow Ajahs at the Tower have started delving more into the studies of healing the mind, a part of the human body that has way too many mysteries than they like. Nynaeve had mentioned a new weave, or possibly a lost one that had only been recently rediscovered, that they have been wanting to attempt. But the risk is too great to attempt on a random, unwilling civilian, and so Rand had presented himself for his old friend to practice on.

"And you're only telling me this now?" Moiraine asks as her steps take her closer to him. He tries not to dwell on the betrayal in her voice, and focuses on it being a scolding—that, he can handle better in his heart when it comes from her.

"This could be good, Moiraine. Once she figures it all out, it can help a lot of people," he reasons, and he knows that she understands and sees it that way as well. But she is no stranger to the maze of the mind, and how one wrong step can cause irreparable loss.

The risks suddenly make their way into his thoughts, and he starts to worry more for her than for himself. "Mask the Bond."

"No," she says immediately, and walks past him. If he must commit to this arrangement, then he will not walk out of her door alone.

He follows her, reasoning, "It's her first time trying this weave. We don't know what can happen to me." 

She stops by the door, pausing to look at him again. "That is exactly why I'm keeping it unmasked. And I will be staying with you through all of it."

"No, you're not. You're going with Lan."

She scoffs at the attempt to drive her away. "And do what exactly?"

He shrugs. "Frolic in the gardens. Discuss poetry. Have portraits done. Anything but strangle Nynaeve if she even tugs at a weave wrongly in the slightest."

She ignores all of his suggestions and opens the door, steadfast in her decision. But her stubbornness has already been too predictable, and she finds Lan already standing there, waiting for her in a premeditated plan he shared with Rand.

"I resent you two," she says, looking back and forth between the two men with a scowl.

"It will pass," Lan remarks as he offers a hand for her to take. Rand nudges her out the door and closes it behind them. She looks at her Warder who only nods at her, letting her know that he will not be dissuaded from his plan. 

Moiraine takes Lan's hand rather forcefully, but he doesn't mind as long as she follows him just as her current Warder had intended. Rand starts walking away, and Lan guides her towards the opposite direction in the long corridor. 

She looks back once, and Lan moves his hand to wrap an arm around her, keeping her moving with him and not towards Rand who refuses to meet her eyes, fearing that it might just be the only gaze he needs to back out on his arrangement with the Queen.

When the Dragon reaches a private room in the infirmary, Nynaeve is already waiting for him, standing next to a bed. 

"Should I be expecting a price on my head?" she asks when she sees him arrive alone, a picture of the success of steering away from a protective Aes Sedai. 

"Not unless you accidentally kill me," he teases and lays down on the bed, interlacing his fingers together on top of his stomach.

His old friend frowns at his remark. "You don't have to do this, Rand."

"Your studies will never progress if you never get to try it," he points out, and she knows that he is right. He closes his eyes and braces for what is to come, and she finally raises her hands over his head and opens herself to saidar.

He feels something shift in the air, and goosebumps form on his skin as he senses her channeling. His hold on himself tightens, and another moment passes before he starts feeling thrumming against the back of his mind, knocking and drilling past his defenses. The weave burns hot through the layers, invading every single memory he has ever created.

When he opens his eyes again, he knows his body doesn't truly follow. 

In the deep tresses of his mind, he finds himself in a place he doesn't recognize. He is surrounded by beige walls and arches of stone being cascaded in soft light coming from a large window. Simple but elegant, like every inch holds history and greatness that he would never be able to fully grasp. The sound of a baby's coos takes his attention to his right, and through the window above the cradle, he sees refined towers and various architecture that do not exist yet—anymore—in the Third Age. 

A fire is burning on his left, and he feels the heat despite the shade of the skin on his hand is not what he is used to seeing in the mirror and he wears a black coat that he does not own. 

He is in this body, but it is not his. 

"This is just an imperfect, overwhelmed woman trying to remind her old friend that he's not invincible," a woman speaks, and the language registers to him first before the meaning does. 

Old Tongue. He has been learning it with Moiraine's help, words exchanged between two scholars over meals and pastimes. Their communication and connection have no boundaries now. He feels her in his mind, body, and soul; reads her like an open book, speaks to her in a language that only some still know, and looks at her in ways that only she will understand. 

The woman in white in front of him turns to leave, but pauses to say, "Light be with you, Lews Therin Telamon." 

"And you, Latra Posae Decume." The words come out of his mouth, but the words are not his though he does not have any control over what has already happened.

Rand remembers her face now, a faint recollection of it from the lives of his ancestors that he walked in the Glass Columns. He met her twice through the eyes of his elders. She looked vastly different in the lifetimes that had passed, but something remained the same in the second time that he saw her—her hands cradling the Sakarnen, delicately and precisely, with complete control of all of its power.

Latra does truly walk away this time, but something in him protests against the growing distance between them. There is something about her that he couldn't quite put his finger on just yet, a pull that tells him that this is not where the connection between them ends. He supposes that he knows that for a fact, and wonders if her eyes already met his—truly his—again. If she had been tethered to Lews Therin as closely as this, then surely they would find each other again in another life. 

Rand wants to call for her, to ask her to pause and face him one last time, and it aches how he cannot speak a word that has not already been spoken in this memory. A mere observer through Lews Therin's eyes and ears. She continues to slip away, and Rand could only replay the sight of her over and over in his mind, trying to find answers to his own questions.

He feels as if he had been through this before. Seen this before. Heard this before. Beige walls and arches to beige dessert sand. White and black coats to blue dress and blue jacket.

"Light be with you, Lews Therin Telamon." 

Good luck, Rand al'Thor.

"And you, Latra Posae Decume."

You too.

That elegance. That dark brown hair. Those striking blue eyes. That unmistakable regard for the Dragon.

Latra Posae Decume. 

Moiraine Damodred.

Lanfear had been searching for the Sakarnen as well, but Moiraine was the one who found it—stumbled upon it by fate, it seemed. But perhaps it was there waiting for her, calling her, as if it was always meant to be hers. 

As an Aes Sedai of the Third Age, she struggled to contain the unrelenting waves of power that came with it, but soon enough, they found their way deep in her bones, like it was always meant to be held by her in all its strength and glory. It satiated a hunger that she did not know she had, one that had been lost in the turnings of the Wheel but has now found itself back in her being once again.

She might not be the same person as the great Amyrlin of the Age of Legends, but she is of the same soul, the very same thread. 

Nothing ever happens for the first time in the turnings of the Wheel of Time, the words run around his thoughts as more pieces fall into place. Moiraine told him that there are multiple futures where she is the Amyrlin, some of where she wields the Sakarnen, and suddenly, the picture in Rand's mind is complete and her visions of the future almost blends into his glimpses of the past. 

They were already together. They are together. And they will be together, still, in this life and in the next.

Chapter Text

Lan leisurely walks beside Moiraine through the gardens as she admires the assortment of flowers that have recently bloomed. She keeps her hands together behind her back to avoid fisting them on the fabric of her dress at every little tingle of discomfort from the Bond. 

Lan notices the tension anyway from that exact habit and stance that he has already memorized. "He will be alright," he tries as a comfort despite being almost completely sure that it would do absolutely nothing. "You trust Nynaeve, don't you?"

"You of all people should know that we never truly trust anyone else with whom we are bonded to," she answers and pauses in front of a flowerbed filled with daisies. 

He stands beside her and watches her trace her finger lightly on the outline of the tiny petals. "Fair enough. But you trust me, right?"

She glances at him with a small mischievous smile tugging at her lips. "You are not the one toying with my Warder's mind at the moment."

He scoffs at the implied distrust, but doesn't mind it nor does he blame her for it. He could clearly remember how difficult it was for him to entrust her life and her Bond to someone else despite knowing Rand as a capable man. Not even the Dragon Reborn himself seemed enough when it came to letting go of his most treasured friend.

Lan takes note of how her fingers still haven't left the flower, her eyes now fixated on it as if she sees something in it that he does not. 

"New favorite?" he asks, and she merely hums as an answer, not quite a direct one at that. She hasn't had the time to think about which flower is her favorite with all her years spent on more important matters, but if she does end up admitting to herself that this is the one she loves most, she knows that it would come with a silent scolding of her reason that she does not even dare to admit.

She went on a picnic by the river with Rand only two weeks ago. She had been busy knitting a scarf for when winter comes, her head remaining craned down most of the time while her Warder laid down on the mat beside her. 

He disappeared from the corner of her eye some time later, and she did not see whatever he fussed with during the next moments, but she soon found out when the sunlight hitting her skin became tamed as he stood in front of her. When she looked up at him, she barely had the time to see a single plucked daisy in his hand before he leaned down to be closer to her and placed it on the space between her head and her ear. His fingers barely grazed her skin, but it felt like it burned hotter than a hundred suns.

No words were spoken between them. He did not tease, did not flatter her either, but somehow, it spoke a thousand words between them. The simplicity and sincerity of it left her frozen. He stared into her eyes for the next silent seconds, admiring and appreciating before he stepped away to kick off his shoes and soak himself in the water. Moiraine did not move still, only her eyes did as they remained stuck on him and followed him wherever he went.

A breath of relief and fondness escaped her upon seeing him smile as he kicked his foot on the water, as if him being happy is what took the weight off of her shoulders. Her mission was to find the Dragon Reborn, not to make him happy. But somehow, she does not find herself complaining about the situation that she was in. 

And when he emerged from the water with that thin, white fabric of his shirt clinging to every chiseled detail on his body, she realized that her desperation to make him follow her guidance might not be the only reason why she could do what she would in that future she saw of them being so much more than this.

She does not know when his foolishness started to become charming, when his laughs started to make her smile, or when his touches started to burn a brand on her skin that she could not wash away. 

She does not know. But she knows that she is damned, and there is no escaping the curse and the gift that is Rand al'Thor.

"Lan..." she starts and lets her hand drop to her sides. Her old friend turns his body towards her, taking note of the way her voice dropped in ways he does not understand.

"We have wandered across countless towns and cities, some where we did not make ourselves known as Warder and Aes Sedai," she recalls, and she catches him nodding along when she finally looks up at him. "How do you think others saw us? Just...two people who can barely part from each other."

Lan thinks about that for a moment, then comes up with the most logical answer he could think of considering the point of view of strangers who once witnessed their connection. "I have referred to you as my wife whenever a situation called for it," he reminds and leaves it at that. 

"Yes, yes. I remember, and not once did I ever mind it," she acknowledges fondly, though it does not quite settle her thoughts. "I suppose it looks normal. Perhaps it is only normal," she says, and he doesn't miss the desperation in her tone as she tries to convince herself.

"What is this about?"

Moiraine shakes her head immediately. "Nothing of importance," she dismisses and walks past him, but escape is not easy to find from a friend who knows her too well.

"It's the life of my greatest friend. Every detail is very important," he gently presses as he follows her.

"What we had was stronger than any bond that any two beings could ever have. Stronger, closer, than a marriage," she says as a matter of fact and he does not disagree in the slightest. "But you and I, we never—" the words catch in her throat and turn into a helpless, strangled sigh. She pauses her steps, and allows him to turn her body to face him when she feels his touch.

"Moiraine." He places his hands on her arms and leans his head down slightly to make sure he gets his point across. "You are beautiful, you always have been. I loved you more than anyone and anything, and I love you, still."

"I know." She sighs then shakes her head. She never has and never would doubt his devotion to her. "It is not that."

He straightens up at that, but keeps his hands on her. "I suppose I just never saw you in that way. You are far greater than that," he adds sincerely.

"There is no bond greater," she mutters when her eyes meet his. "That should be more than enough, should it not? It was enough for us." Her voice grows quiet and her shoulders slump in defeat from all the questions unasked and words unsaid.

She no longer stops Lan from figuring it all out in the silence they share. She bares it all at his feet, not knowing what to do with herself. 

"Do you want something more? With Rand?" The question comes out carefully, afraid of the answer that might come his way. He never thought that the day would come when he would ever ask this to her, about a certain stubborn sheepherder no less. A list of all the ways this could go wrong starts unbidden in his mind, and he cannot stop it, but he is not sure he wants to. Perhaps one of them could convince her.

Moiraine opens her mouth to utter a barely-formed answer, but she stammers more than she speaks, and she reads the expression on his face before the words become coherent enough.

"Nevermind," she huffs and tries to move away, but Lan snaps out of the state he is in and manages to hold onto her.

"Forgive me. I'm only trying to process this. I was not aware that you have taken liking into men or anyone again," he admits. He never tried to push her out of her comfort zone again when it came to her romances after Siuan died, and for the longest time, he thought that she would never allow herself to feel that way for anyone else ever again.

"Trust me, even I think I am going mad," she whispers in exhaustion, and buries her face in her hands. "Forget all that I have said, for both of our sakes."

"Moiraine," he calls for her gently but seriously and waits for her to look up at him again. "Pardon me, but I just need to know—has he done anything that has led to this?" The Last Battle is over. There is no longer a reason for her to bend her own emotions and morals just to appease the Dragon for the sake of the world, but Lan could not get the possibility out of his head.

"He simply exists," she answers, a whisper of admittance. There is no one exact reason, only that he is everything that he is. 

She bows her head, her fingers fidgeting nervously at the fabric of her dress. "I do not know why this is happening. I do not know why it has to happen in this turning..." she mutters.

Lan shifts in his stance in confusion. "What do you mean 'in this turning'?" She does not answer, and only sighs at all the things she never told him about Rhuidean. She did not think that certain visions were important because she deemed them unlikely. Unlikely at the time, she corrects now.

"Did you see this happen in the Rings?" His tone does not rise, but it turns into that familiar one that he often uses with her when she is about to do something reckless.

"Moiraine..." he calls again, worry and warning lacing his voice now.

"I know," she whines in frustration. "I'm better than this. I should be. I am much older than him. He is the Dragon for Light's sake!"

His expression shifts again into something much grimmer, and it is as if a heavy shadow is cast on his face.

"What?" she asks with nothing better to say. "Speak, Lan. I know that it is unwise, your face says it a thousand times over."

He purses his lips at how upset she seems about his disapproval.

"It is not the two of you that I'm against. Not really. I'm not worried about him, I'm worried for you."

She crosses her arms over her chest uncomfortably at how serious he sounds. She thinks that it might be better if he just scolds her, but this—this feels heavier.

He reaches out a hand to her side, his thumb brushing over her fingers as he stares into her eyes. "He is the Dragon. Lews Therin Telamon," he reminds with a frown. "We both have read the books, heard the stories. Everyone knows what happened to Ilyena..."

Her nails dig onto her clothed arm and her eyes widen at the assumption behind his words. "I will not be her," she says incredulously, but the thought plants its seed in her mind.

"How can you be so sure that you weren't already her?"

"There have been a thousand turnings, and a thousand more yet to happen. She could have survived in any one of them."

"Perhaps she is never meant to," Lan immediately suggests, tries to instill even. "Some paths are fixed. I just want to protect you."

"That is no longer your duty to fulfill," she points out sharply.

He visibly winces at being reminded of the bond that he lost, even more so in the way she said it. She looks away for a moment in regret and how easily the words slipped through her tongue. 

A bitter chuckle then escapes his throat. "I should have known that he would take you away from me."

"Lan..." she whispers in protest against his remark, and steps closer to him. He searches her face, and despite her frustration and confusion, he reads her well enough that he sees that she is tiptoeing on the very edge of the line that she is debating to cross.

"Does he make you happy? I want a straight answer," he demands unashamedly for her own sake. Moiraine untangles her hold on herself, laying down her vulnerability in the hands of the man who once held her in times when she felt the weakest.

"Yes," she breathes. "Yes, he does." Plain and true, just as he wanted it, and just as she needed to admit to herself. 

Lan watches her carefully and takes note of the subtle ways she has changed throughout the years she has spent living with the young man—how she eats better, how her shoulders are able to relax completely, how she smiles more often even though she tries to hide it.

He takes both of her hands warmly in his and holds onto them tightly, thinking that it would be the last time that he will be able to still have a part of her that is not tied to her Warder.

"I do not know how deep this goes..." 

"It hasn't gone far," yet, she curses. "Thank the Light."

"But if he..." he continues and squeezes her hands in emphasis. "If he touches you in any way that you do not want, even just once—once is all I need—run to me."

"You will always have a place with me, Moiraine," he assures, and she nods as she basks in the comfort that he offers. When she feels him tug at her hands, she lets him pull her into his embrace. 

Chapter Text

"Enough is enough, Rand. Get up," Nynaeve commands with resolution, tapping her friend on the arm to urge him to stand up after he slipped away from her weaves with wide eyes and a gasp that terrified her.

Rand does not stand up, does not even sit up. Instead, he digs his head deeper into the pillow. "You barely started. I'm fine. I'm whole. I'm still able to talk to you properly," he says stubbornly and tries to convince her, but she takes a step away.

"I did something—you saw something. I can see it in your face," she says full of worry, a hand tugging at her braid.

"I just...saw a new perspective, that is all. Try one more time," he says with a smile, one that she is used to seeing from him, hoping that it would ease her into the idea of attempting the weave again. 

She debates against the idea in her head for an entire minute, but he does not give her the chance to continue when he says, "we're already here anyway."

She sighs, but takes a hesitant step forward. "Your Aes Sedai is going to kill me."

He grins at that, and it makes her feel a little better about this as she sees that she has not messed with his mind and who he is. 

"She can't. I won't let her. Lan won't let her. And she would probably have me do it, which I won't," he jests with a soft chuckle. He extends an arm out to reach for her, and she closes the distance between their hands.

"Try one last time. I promise, I don't mind."

Nynaeve takes another moment to consider all that could happen, but eventually honors his request. She squeezes his hand before letting go, and prepares herself for a dance with saidar once again.

The weave does not push and prod as hard this time around. The threads move slowly and lightly through his mind, gently knocking on the doors of memories near the surface.

When Rand opens his eyes, he knows exactly where he has been taken back to. He is still laying down, but the surface underneath him is rough with pebbles and uneven soil, unlike the bed at the infirmary. He remembers this scenery clearly, not just because he only saw it two weeks ago, but also because he truly treasured that day.

His head turns to glance at Moiraine who is knitting beside him, her hands careful and her eyes focused. He watches her for some time, cherishing the view of her losing herself in something that makes her calm and happy. Even after years, moments like this still feel new to him, and he always takes the time to memorize each one in silence as if it is fragile enough to slip away in the blink of an eye.

She spent more than half of her life dedicating herself to him and to their purpose, and now, he swears to himself that he would spend the rest of his life making sure that finding him was worth it.

When the sunlight starts to peer through the leaves and tree branches stronger, he reaches for her floppy hat that miraculously survived the Waste, the journey to Tear, and all that happened in between and beyond. It is quite tattered now, but she still refuses to part with it. He used to laugh about it, but now he makes sure that they don't ever lose it. He doesn't tell her, but he treats it importantly now, sees it as a sort of memento that only the two of them share, a piece of history that he wants her to share with only him and no one else.

He takes the hat and rests it on top of his face, covering his eyes from the bright sunlight. He hears her chuckle softly at his actions, and he has the courage to smile widely where she could not see his face. He takes in a deep breath, the scent of her hair that remained on the hat a comforting one. 

He gets up shortly after, wanting to dip his body in the river, but something catches his attention near the base of the tree they are lounging under. He plucks out the daisy, and he finds himself walking towards Moiraine without hesitation. He places the flower on her ear, and the stare he gets from her leaves him frozen. 

It is a feat that he manages to stop his fingers from touching her cheek, but he is not so lucky at stopping himself from wondering if she still thinks that he is handsome when she is not intoxicated. Even worse, he wishes that she would say the words again and mean it. 

Once he finally manages to pull away, he continues into the water, hoping that it would wash away his thoughts and sentiments about the woman he is supposed to protect, but a part of him knows that it is a losing game.

When he emerges into land later on, his eyes catch the way she is watching him, and it's like he never soaked himself in the river. The water is cool, but his blood runs hot. He could only hope that she thinks that the flush on his ears and cheeks is due to the sun and not the Sun Queen.

He does not know when he started wanting her compliments. He does not know when her happiness started to become the source of his, when her sadness started to hurt him more than it hurts her, when her entire being started to leave him both complete and undone with just a stare.

He does not understand how she can make him feel like a man and a giddy boy all at the same time. He does not know and he does not truly understand. What he does know is that she found him, but he is lost in everything that is her.

His defenses crumble down at the thought of Moiraine feeling like home and so much more. He relaxes into the memory—too much, he soon discovers when Nynaeve's weave slips deeper with the absence of his control.

The place around him shifts, and suddenly, the brightness of the sun is gone as he finds himself in the dark. He realizes then that it is because his eyes are now closed, but his lips are moving—and they are moving against someone else's.

When his eyes open, he finds an unfamiliar woman smiling lovingly at him with her hands on his chest. Rand does not recognize her, but he is here, and she looks at him like she knows him.

He does not need to guess, he knows this by now. He is living in Lews Therin's memories again.

"Ilyena, my love," the words come out as a whisper, and Rand is not sure if he should feel embarrassed or uncomfortable when he inevitably lives through another kiss. The threads twist and turn around his mind, tugging at fragments of memories of his past and present.

When Lews pauses for air, he does not see anything out of the ordinary for the memory is fixed, but Rand startles. It feels as if the weave has taken a wrong turn, creating a glitch that braids an image of his present with his past as the woman in front of him is no longer Ilyena, but Moiraine. 

He blinks once, and Ilyena returns to where she is supposed to be. But even when the kiss moves forward, his thoughts remain in place—stuck with Moiraine. He could no longer picture anyone else. It feels like a sin, an abomination of some sort, to use someone else's memories and allow Nynaeve to unknowingly twist it to his own fantasies, but he cannot stop.

The kiss gets deeper and he holds onto her tighter. Lews moves to be closer, but the weave pulls Rand towards a different direction, and that step forward ends up bringing him to a different memory.

He is back where he spoke with Latra, but the place looks vastly different. He smells smoke and hears chaos erupt in the distance. He looks towards the wide window where he once saw the most beautiful works of architecture, but now, the view is filled with dust and debris and ruin.

A pained gasp from somewhere behind him makes him turn around, and the sight turns Rand's stomach upside down.

Her golden hair is now damp with thick streaks of blood as Ilyena lies on the floor, her face pale and her body all covered in red. He does not even know where exactly her wounds are, where they start nor where they end—there are simply too many. 

Rand aches for someone that he never truly met as Lews walks painstakingly slowly, as if he doesn't care, as if he enjoys watching his wife suffer. When he gets closer, her hand instinctively reaches out towards the wooden cradle. The baby's coos he once heard is no longer there. Lews glances at it with indifference, but Rand feels like he is going to be sick as he watches blood steadily trickle down the woodwork. Lews Therin Telamon. Kinslayer.

Rand wants to get out of this body, out of this memory, and his body physically protests for an escape.

"Stop," he whimpers.

"Rand," Nynaeve calls for him but he barely hears her with how far, how deep he is in the memory. Worried and distracted, the threads of saidar tumble messily out of her hold, causing another glitch in what Rand sees in the memory.

Lews crouches down in front of Ilyena, but all Rand sees is Moiraine—his Aes Sedai he swore to protect, all beaten and bloodied by his hands. 

When men who can channel go mad, they kill the ones they love first.

Lews raises a hand, light and casual, because he does not need much as the strongest male channeler of his time. 

"No," Rand cries and begs, and with a single flick of his wrist, he witnesses the body he is in kill his most beloved without a second thought. 

And he watched it all, lived through it all—and worse—he saw it happen with the weaves playing Moiraine's face over Ilyena's.

In his eyes, Lews Therin did not just kill his wife. Rand also killed his Aes Sedai. 

Do I kill you?

Sometimes.

"Moiraine!" he screams at the exact moment Nynaeve's weaves cease their hold on him. Rand sits up in an instant, his chest heaving at the heaviness of his fear and anger at who he was, at what he caused.

"Rand?" Nynaeve calls his name carefully, and he looks up only to find that he took hold of her wrist without realizing it, as if he forced her to stop channeling over his mind.

"I-I'm sorry," he stutters and immediately lets her go, deeply afraid that he would hurt someone he cares about even after he has cleansed saidin. 

She opens her mouth to ask him what he saw, but she never manages to get the words out when the door opens loudly and Moiraine barges in with Lan right behind her.

Rand looks at them, and it is just like how they used to be—with Lan following her wherever she goes. The King helped him without question when he asked him to keep her occupied while Nynaeve practices the weave. If it would keep Moiraine safe and sound, Lan would grant any request without a second thought, and Rand wonders if that is what the older man did in his past life too.

He wonders who Lan was—a quiet but confident man, one who stands with honor and prestige to his name under his humbleness. A loyal man, one who does as an Aes Sedai wishes and serves her until he takes his last breath. A man who has so much love to give, but also so much duty to fulfill. 

He is that to Moiraine. Who has that been to Latra? 

The answer slowly comes to Rand in silence, but it fills him with pride amidst the horror he is feeling. Rhodric—his blood ancestor who lived during the Breaking of the World. He served Latra Sedai and protected the Sakarnen just as she asked, and Lan had helped Moiraine with its power centuries later. They both did their part in the world by serving an Aes Sedai all while loving the one that they hold dear. A balance of love and duty through the ages. 

He supposes that is why Lan once felt like a father to him, because he was of his blood in his past life.

Rand meets Moiraine's eyes then, and her chest heaves the way his does, out of worry and fear, and out of the rush in which she ran towards the infirmary upon feeling his distress. She does not glance at Nynaeve, does not blame her or curse her for anything. Her eyes only remain on her Warder as she walks towards him.

Rand moves to let his feet hang over the edge of the bed. His face is full of longing, feeling as if the few seconds that it takes for her to cross the room is a hundred lifetimes. When she finally stands in front of him, she does so very closely, his knees touching her legs. Her hand discreetly reaches for his, and he meets her in the middle immediately, but it doesn't feel enough. Her other hand—the one that Nynaeve can see—aches to touch him too.

Rand cares about the other things a lot less at the moment. He presses his forehead on her shoulder and rests his other hand on her hip. Only upon feeling her alive and well is he finally able to take a deep breath.

"I found you," he whispers. "I found you again," he repeats with relief.

Nynaeve steps away to stand beside her husband to give their friends some space. Moiraine leans her head down, her lips close to his ear. "You will always find me," she whispers back. The Wheel works that way, for better or for worse.

She knows that their friends are still in the room, but she lets her other hand move to the back of his head, running her fingers through his hair comfortingly. Her Warder's need for her is stronger than what others might think, and she already knows exactly what Lan thinks. 

And just as she assumes, the King watches them. Whatever he has been trying to prevent, it has already started, and neither Rand nor Moiraine are doing anything to stop it. Instead, they are falling together headfirst, and they are basking in every second of it.