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The man awoke slowly, his eyes sliding open. Thirteen faces gazed down upon him, thirteen sets of eyes filled with intense concentration and overwhelming satisfaction. The corner of his mind screamed at him that something was wrong, that he must remember something, do something. Another corner told him that it was already too late. The youngest woman, for they were all women, he noted, had long dark hair, almost black in its depth, and brown eyes that were filled with a sense of lost innocence, of satisfaction and horror.
There was something ... he remembered a corridor, roughly hewn and ancient, no that wasn't right. It was wooden and primitive, but neatly kept. And someone ... Lews Therin! Lews Therin had been in the corridor, but he didn't look like Lews Therin. Somehow, though, Elan Morin, no ... Ishamael, his name was Ishamael, why would he mistake his own name? Somehow, Ishamael knew that it was Lews Therin, even though he didn't look right.
"It is done," one of the strange women said, and the youngest seemed to beam. A moment later, and a look of vague guilt settled over her. She seemed to contemplate the other woman's statement.
"The Forsaken has been gentled."
At the word 'Forsaken' the woman lost her guilt. She looked just as smug and satisfied as the rest. Ishamael, watching, knew that he was witnessing the remaking of a spirit. The words, though, the words that had such an effect upon her. They meant something, something that he should know. Reaching, straining with his mind, he tried to remember.
He shook his head, and realized he was lying on the ground. On a dirty stretch of village street. The sun was going down, and lingering strands of destruction were all around him.
Instinctively, he reached out for the comfort of saidin, eager to experience anew the burning light that defined his existence. Comprehension and memory ripped through him an instant later when the light would not come, when his embrace yielded no power.
"No!" he screamed, writhing on the ground, jumping to his feet. The memories flooded back to him. Lews Therin had knocked him unconscious. He must have handed him over to the Aes Sedai, have given him to them as a... a gift! Rage overwhelmed him and he threw himself forward on the women, wanting to kill them, wanting their blood on his hands and on fingers, smeared on his face and over his body, wanting to see every last one of them in pieces of the ground.
Coolly, they caught him in weaves of Air.
"We shall take you to the White Tower," one of the women, an older one who had the look of nobility said. "There, you will face trial for your crimes. You have already been gentled. We shall see what your punishment will be now."
The looks of loathing upon their faces faltered in the face of his sudden overwhelming contempt, but he said nothing. He would have his revenge, he swore. On them, and upon the Dragon. He would. Despair swept through him as he wondered just how he would accomplish it.
***
Rand al'Thor once more knelt before the Pit of Doom, feeling the ecstatic presence of the Dark One wash over his mind, and flood his spirit.
"I have done as you ordered."
Thunder reverberating through his being as the Dark One's answer reached him.
STILL YOU TRIED TO SAVE THEM. DO YOU THINK THAT YOU CAN RESIST FOREVER, DRAGON? YOU HAVE GIVEN YOURSELF AS MY SERVANT, WHETHER YOU TRULY BELIEVE SO, OR NO. YOU ACCOMPLISH YOUR TASKS AS THE MADNESS TAKES YOU, AND STILL YOU RESIST. YOU ARE A FOOL, BUT A DANGEROUS FOOL. THE SAVIOUR HAS ALWAYS BEEN THE DESTROYER.
"I came to you because I want to save my wife and my child, and the world," the Dragon said.
AND IN THEM, YOU FIND THE SHADOW AS IN NO OTHER. GO TO YOUR WIFE AND YOUR UNBORN, AND YOUR WORLD, DRAGON. THERE ARE ENEMIES IN ABUNDANCE, AND ALLIES WHO HATE YOU. YOU HAVE DESTROYED DEMANDRED AND ISHAMAEL AND AGINOR. BALTHAMEL IS DEAD AND LANFEAR HAS TETHERED HERSELF TO YOU EVEN AS SHE TETHERED YOU TO HERSELF. AND STILL THERE ARE ALL OF THE ENEMIES IN THE WORLD, EVEN THE GIRL THAT ONCE YOUR LOVE. ESPECIALLY THE GIRL. THEY DO NOT WELCOME YOU AS SAVIOUR, LEWS THERIN. I LOOK FORWARD TO OBSERVING YOU REALIZE THAT TRUTH. I HAVE STOPPED THE MADNESS FROM ADVANCING, DRAGON. BUT YOU WILL KEEP WHAT YOU ALREADY HAVE.
Laughter crushed through his mind, unstoppable and unbearable, ecstasy mixed with agony and the Dragon whimpered on his knees, the noise signalling the surrender he refused to admit, even to himself. But the Dark One heard, and understood.
LEAVE ME, NOW.
Rand al'Thor opened a Gate, and left.
A long moment passed, and finally the Dark One spoke to the emptiness.
NAE'BLIS ... YOU ARE TRULY MINE.
***
Lanfear looked up from the tome she was studying as her husband burst into the room, holding his head in his hands, moaning in lingering horror and pain.
"What is it?" she asked coolly.
"Nothing," he stated flatly, collapsing into another chair.
Looking up, he stared at her with blue-grey eyes that enchanted her in their power and pride and sorrow, in their despair and resiliency and madness.
"I do not believe you," she whispered, walking over to him and draping her form across his own, curling up in his arms. "What is it?"
"The Dark One has spoken," Rand murmured. "The madness has been halted, and I am immortal as you are. I have felt it. But he has left me with what I have, and I have the duty, the duty!, to save the world from itself, and from you and the Forsaken. And from myself. How do you like that?"
Lanfear's dark eyes were seductive as she bent near, lips hovering over his mouth as she whispered.
"It's what you wanted, my husband. You must have your duties to feel alive. I know that. You must have your duties to be alive. And now, we both have eternity. For all ... three ... of us," she closed the final distance and sealed her lips on his own. "What more could we ask for?"
He stared at her impassively, and nodded in resignation.
"Nothing at all."
All around them, silver threads glistened on the white silk of Lanfear's chambers, dazzling them with their overwhelming purity and brilliance.
END
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