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She does not remember the moment she is released from the Rings, does not know if her body hits the ground. She doesn't know if she's capable of pain in this moment, even. The only sensation - if she can call it that, even - that she is aware of, is the stillness, the Pattern settling out again before her.
She had felt like a needle piercing through the weaves of the Pattern until moments ago. And for how long? Days? Years? It had felt like a lifetime of if onlys, thousands of mirrors separated by single decisions.
She had been killed by Rand.
She had killed Rand.
She had been killed by Lanfear.
She had killed Lanfear.
She had bonded Rand.
She had killed Rand.
She had been killed by Lanfear.
She had been the Amyrlin Seat and killed Rand.
She and Lan had been killed by Rand.
She did not even dwell on the other parts - the intimacy, the betrayals, the pleasure, the pain that came before the end. It was irrelevant in the scheme of all things. All of this was, truly.
She opens her eyes to see she is leaned against Avendesora, Rand beside her, his gaze fixed ahead, as if in meditation. She looks away from his face, right to his forearms. And he is marked, just as expected. The twin dragons snaking around his arms, the gold gleaming even in the clouded light entering Rhuidean.
"You've done it," she says, her voice catching, her throat is so dry. She wants to feel pride, or at least satisfaction that they're moving in the right direction, that the Pattern is willing them closer and closer to the rightful end, but she is filled with the endless might-have-beens that she wonders if it's already too late, that she took a misstep somewhere months back. Perhaps she and Lan made a mistake ten years ago that cost them the salvation of the world. She tries to suck in enough saliva to swallow some down and moisten her throat, but she's dry to the bone. She only manages a pathetic cough.
Rand nods. "It's time to go back."
He doesn't sound like he wants to. He sounds like he'd rather stay there, hiding amongst the clouds, avoiding his destiny. He is still stubborn, she knows, but he understands the ta'veren now, knows that the Wheel has woven the Pattern tightly around him, that he will be pulled along if necessary.
She nods in agreement, and stands. She's unsteady, unsure of how long has passed since they entered this place. He places a steadying hand on her back as they start to walk. Only then does she understand that he's been waiting there for her. That he's been marked for some time now, with no reason to stay behind except that she was still trapped within the rings. This alone gives her strength to walk beside him.
Still, her vision of emerging victorious from Rhuidean with the Car'a'carn beside her is marred by her pure exhaustion, and she stumbles when they begin to go uphill. From her knees, in the sand, it feels impossible to stand, she is so tired, and so, so thirsty, and it all seems so silly: she's been so much closer to dying before, she's been in more dire situations by a mile, and still found the strength to go on. But this time she feels herself weighed down by what she has seen, by the turns of the Wheel that have not come to be, that perhaps should have come to be, and instead of rising, she feels herself curling in on herself.
Rand is more powerful than ever, closer to his destiny than ever before, but which destiny? Which way will he turn, in the end?
He turns towards her this time, rather than rejecting her, and she feels his arms against her. The gold of the dragons on his forearms gleams even in the halflight, and when he touches her she is again reminded of how closely they have been wound together in the Pattern. So many turns of the Wheel involved them, so many ends involved their deaths, so many others involved their triumphs. Was it true that Laman's folly was necessary in order to produce this turning of the Wheel? That so many lives would be upended, so many grudges started just so that her life could be bound to the Dragon's? It seemed terribly silly, and yet it made complete sense, the duality that permeated everything, same as the idea that Rand would unite the Aiel and destroy them. That he would end the darkness or bring it back, more powerful than ever.
It feels terribly weak to be held, something she would hardly allow even on the brink of death in all the years hunting for the Dragon, but there's a melancholy in her now, the impetus gone from her bones. It's not unlike when she couldn't touch the Source, though she can feel it there now, thrumming at her fingertips, and even moreso, Rand seems to be vibrating with Saidin. But the One Power can't comfort her now, not for this. So she lets the exhaustion take her, for once, hungry and thirsty and completely drained, only her mind refusing to quiet.
Rand stares straight ahead, despite the wind, despite the dust. His brow is set. He is looking forward towards the line of spears, but she can't. She turns her face back into his neck, back into Rhuidean, into the past. She knows this is an admission, just not sure exactly of what. Of her weakness? Her fallibility? Her submission? She had tried to tell him before Rhuidean, several times before then, really, but didn't have the words - her life mattered little compared to his. Perhaps more now, with ta'varen weaving them more tightly together, but in the end, if Moiraine dying meant the Dragon will succeed, she'd answer the call unquestioningly.
He walks up the final ridge, and she can feel the determination in his stride. He's exhausted, certainly, but he feels settled by knowledge, more sure, if anything, where she still feels suspended within the rings. She supposes it must be different, for he who has always been searching for answers, for he who has never understood his origin, and wants to understand his destiny, than for her, who simply can't comprehend a thousand thousand turns of the Wheel.
They're there, waiting: Egwene, Lan, the Aiel Wise Ones. She is moved to Lan's arms and it is familiar: she has been here before, but it is also frightening. For over twenty years she has shared everything with this man. They spent years searching and searching, interrogating, fighting, avoiding, tracking, spying, and she knew every flicker across the bond. She trusted him to know her as well, and even after the Eye of the World, she would trust Lan with her life, with all of her secrets. But this? How could she explain this?
She's weak, Light, she's weak, but she can feel him rushing into the bond, now that she's back: worry, primarily, relief, curiosity, gratefulness, probably toward Rand. And she has to admit that it isn't misplaced. If she fell out of the Rings alone, she doubts she would find strength enough to climb out of Rhuidean. Seeing all the ways the die could be cast, and knowing which board they were playing on... it was too much. She might as well have climbed into Avendasora and let it swallow her up.
But she can't. She's a Damodred. She's Moiraine Sedai. She was unfortunate enough to hear a foretelling once upon a time, something she only saw undone in one of the turns of the Wheel she witnessed. She needs to be conscious of what she is sending across the Warder bond as well, because it's probably abject hopelessness at this point. She jerks in Lan's arms, making to stand. "Please rest, you need healing," he says, and she can hear the pain in his words, pain that he is masking in the bond.
To him, she realizes, this is the Eye of the World all over again: her going ahead without him, her and Rand alone, despite such oaths and promises a Warder and an Aes Sedai are alleged to have. She cannot be swayed by such things as nostalgia and tradition, she cannot be weighed down by sentiment, or by obligation. She cannot worry about hurting feelings, about a single individual when the danger was to the entire world. And yet. And yet.
She lets him take her back to the camp, his walk as steady as Rand's, probably steadier, since he wasn't exhausted, but she had felt no sign of that when Rand carried her from Rhuidean. The Dragon was not to be slowed by such human problems as dehydration and fatigue, not in the face of such insurmountable fate. The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, but the Wheel would not let the Dragon die from something as simple as too little drink. They both seemed to know that now.
Lan sets her down on the cot in her tent, and his hand is at her head, water at her lips. "Drink. Slowly."
She does, not even scoffing at the command, simply complying because it is the most sensible course of action. She needs to replete her strength. She needs to recharge for the next battle, for whatever is coming, because as has been shown to her, she will certainly be there for whatever is challenging Rand - whether supporting him or opposing him. The water is salve on her parched throat, and she knows her voice will return, what of it she didn't burn out screaming in the Rings, but she has little to say. What can she tell Lan to express what has occurred?
He places the waterskin down beside her, still within reach, and sets to making tea. It's quiet, just the two of them within her tent, though she knows they'll get Egwene to come by and Heal her soon enough. Not that there's anything wrong with her more than some cuts and scrapes, lack and food and drink, and profound and deep exhaustion. She needs to sleep, needs it desperately, but can't imagine closing her eyes. She sees Lan eyeing her patiently from the other side of the kettle. He let her walk into Rhuidean without a word against. He trusts her still. She has to try.
"I saw countless turns," she admits, her voice soft and hoarse. He should know as much, if he's any good with his eyes and ears. This much she can say freely. It's frustrating that even now, even here she feels the pressure of Daes Dae'mar, or at least echoes of it, fear that loose lips might be her demise, or that nothing should be offered without a price.
Lan waits expectantly, pouring them each a cup of tea but not answering. He adds a few biscuits to her saucer, the ones he knows she prefers. He's considerate, she knows, realizing she won't want the stews or dried meat they've been eating of late after days and days of nothing. She sips the tea and bites into the corner of the biscuit. It's familiar, comforting. It's almost enough to convince her that this is before, that there aren't hundreds of possible turns repeating through her head, ones where she killed him, ones where she releases him, ones where she gets him killed. They could be living one of them right now.
"I don't know what to make of it," she says. It's no trouble getting this past her oaths, it's not a lie at all. She's certain he can feel her unease, and that's what he really wants to know about, but she doesn't know how to dispel that. She cannot tell him about all of it. She cannot tell him about all the ways he dies, and Rand dies. And she certainly cannot tell him all the ways she dies. He's her Warder. He will step in to prevent it, even at the cost of the Dragon. Though he may say differently, she cannot trust him to do so at the very last moment, and that isn't a fault of his, but of their circumstances.
"Has anything changed?" Lan asks.
Yes. She thinks. A million things. I've changed. But truly, their mission is the same. She takes another sip of tea, finishing the cup, and forces calm through the bond. She shakes her head. "Rand has embraced his role as Car'a'carn, so now we support him with the Aiel. And continue to guard against the Chosen."
Lan nods, and looks like he wants to say more, but the tent flap opens and Egwene enters. "Please excuse me," she says, nodding her head a little deferentially. Moiraine looks up, curious, at Egwene. There were no tear tracks, no emotions at all on her face, really, but she also didn't seem overjoyed at Rand's return.
Egwene comes closer, obviously not yet confident in her abilities, and Moiraine wants to dismiss her. She just needs to sleep, after all. For one terrible second, she thinks of a weave one of the Reds performed, just once, in front of her. Some mind-altering weave that took memories away. She smiles a little at the absurdity of the thought, at the depth of her exhaustion. At the very notion of Moiraine Damodred voluntarily giving up her hard-earned intelligence.
"How are you feeling?" Egwene asks. She kneels down beside the bed. Lan pours Egwene a cup of tea and refills Moiraine's cup.
"I'll be fine in the morning, certainly," she says. Her vocal cords feel flayed, and she's sure Egwene picks up on such. "Is Rand alright?"
Egwene nods. "I think so. He's by the fire, sharing a meal with the Aiel leaders now."
Egwene asks permission to delve and though Moiraine hates such a weave, she consents, eager for Egwene to start so she can finish. The weave is gentle, delicate, checking her throat, her lungs, her torn-up hands and skinned knees. Egwene Heals her, and delves once more to check that everything seems back to normal. "I wish I could take your fatigue," she says, "But-"
"Don't," Lan interrupts. "If you do, she'll just stay up." She wonders if she'll be able to get to sleep regardless.
Egwene smiles shyly and nods. "I'll take my leave, then."
"Thank you, Egwene."
Moiraine lays back, her pains gone, her tea and cookies finished, her bed comfortable enough. Everything was fine. Rand passed the test. She passed hers. They lived to fight another day. And yet she feels she will never be able to sleep again. A thousand thousand turns of the Wheel, and the splendor was as much a torture as the horror. She turns on her side and tries to latch on to one of those memories - her and Siuan settled in bed, unbothered about the time, unworried about the world outside. It's possible the Dragon had been reborn, but Moiraine didn't know about it. It was the only turn of the Wheel she had seen where she didn't, and she replayed it and replayed it until she could fall asleep.
When she wakes, the tent beside hers. She's still filthy, dusty and hair tangled from Rhuidean, but there are no baths in the Aiel wastes, as she quickly learned, so she takes a change of clothes into the steam tent. At least this late at night she'll have some privacy. She brings the lantern along for light and pours a large ladle of water on the eternally glowing coals, allowing herself to sweat out the dirt and sand that feels like it's baked into her pores.
She takes of her dress and turns it inside out, using the semi-clean inside to wipe off her skin. She's still filthy by her standards, so she cheats, weaving the steam into slightly cooler water and splashing herself with it, then scrubbing herself properly. She does the same with her hair, though it's less effective. She brushes it out after, then braids it neatly, so hopefully it doesn't become matted in the dessert.
She changes into a new dress and wears a shawl over it, stepping out of the tent into the chilly night air of the dessert. She hangs her old, filthy dress on one of the lines of her tent and walks to the fire, still burning low, despite no one tending to it. She sits down, knowing she won't be able to get back to sleep. She's not back to her usual self - no, that will take a lot more sleep and a few more meals, at least - but she feels much closer to the woman who entered the Rings than the one who they spit out.
"What did you see?"
She starts, hands moving to start a weave before she even turns around. She curses herself for leaving her tent without a weapon - how could she be so unprepared? But she recognizes his voice, a half-second late, and her hands fall limp again.
Rand doesn't look very apologetic for sneaking up on her, but he moves closer to the fire, sitting in a chair across the way from her. The flames reflect in the gold of his tattoos - flaming dragons snaking across his skin, like the burning vision in Falme. He doesn't repeat his question, he simply waits. She wonders if he waited for her in Rhuidean - for days, she heard - out of some obligation, or to ask her this now, to garner some insight.
But what is she to say? She didn't tell Lan, and she has confided far more in Lan over the years. Rand's anger that she kept things from him is not exactly unfounded, she supposes, but what to tell? And how? And what will such confessions do? She tastes the words she wants to say, testing them against her oaths. "It is as you said, before we were separated, Rand al'Thor. Our lives are woven closely together in the Pattern, in this turning, and in many, many others."
His brow furrows, seemingly forgetting that her uncle began the Aiel war among all the other revelations. "What happened in those other turns?" he asks. "Did I choose light? Or dark? Do I live or die?"
She was wrong, she thinks. She is still so, so exhausted, a bone tiredness that will probably not be relieved just by sleeping. She wonders if it will ever go away. This is the burden of knowledge, and the limitations of how much she can act on it. It is seeing all the pieces on the board, and only getting to move one every twenty turns. It is both gift and curse. "I saw a thousand thousand turns of the Wheel," she says, trying to impart some of this on him. "All of those things happened many times over."
He shakes his head in frustration, not at this news, but at the idea that she was not giving him an answer that he liked. That she was still holding back from him. She dares to try again, even though she knows that each time she speaks, she is casting off a turn of the Wheel, and entering into another, slightly different iteration, hoping she's improving her chances and not dooming them all. "Mostly, you die," she says. "Often, I die first."
This, at least, seems to catch his attention. She wonders if he thought her invincible. If her failed prediction of dying at the Eye of the World made him think she would just always be around. Foolish, she thinks, but it fills her with a little bit of affection.
"What about the others? Egwene? Mat? Nynaeve? Perrin?"
She shrugs. "There are various turns for better and worse, but my fate follows yours, and Rand al'Thor, you seem to almost always die alone."
He nods, accepting this. She would too. She did too. Her deaths side-by-side with Lan, or with Siuan, were much worse. Dying alone at least came with the comfort that others might live, that the Wheel continues to turn.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, and she thinks of the hundreds of turns with Lanfear, of her killing the Forsaken, or more often, of the Forsaken killing her. She hasn't mentioned it to Lan or to Rand, because she can't decide what to do with the information, or what saying it aloud will change, but she knows such repetition is likely to come to pass in this turning as well. Perhaps she was foolish to let Lanfear live as long as she has. Perhaps that will be her undoing. But she won't let it be Rand's, if she can help it.