#moiraine x thom

[pillowfriends]

✨prolonged eye contact✨

[skyholly]

blood runs thicker than water

Summary:

"She often found herself staring into the painting in the salon. It almost felt like looking into a mirror."

Guinevere's reflection holds more than her own face, and it threatens to reveal Moiraine and Siuan's most preciously kept secret.

moiraine/siuan

rand/ofc

Epilogue: Guinevere

The sky over Toman Head burned gold and crimson, and the sea winds carried the scent of salt and distant smoke as Guinevere half-dragged, half-supported Rand down a narrow path between crumbling stone buildings. His steps were uneven, stumbling upon every single cobblestone, but his hand was firm where it clutched her arm, kind and steady. She could still feel the warmth in her forehead, where he had so sweetly laid a kiss just moments ago. The action had sent shivers down her spine, as it reminded her of the overbearing truth she had so recently uncovered. 

They were doomed, the two of them. In this life and every other. Guinevere knew she ought to stay away from him, she had promised herself doing so, but she hadn’t been able to leave him, surrounded by people she couldn’t fully trust. Or could she? My mind is a mess. The only thing Guinevere was certain of is that they had to wait for Moiraine, she’d know what to do now; the Aes Sedai was their best possible guidance. Guinevere sighed, as she pulled Rand closer to her. 

The boy’s face was pale, eyes wide and watery. He hadn’t said a word since they’d escaped Tommen’s Head, amidst chaos and frolics, his silence only broken by the rasp of his breath. Whether from exhaustion, shock, or terror, Guinevere couldn’t say, but she was betting on all three. 

“Stay with me,” she murmured, pleading almost, as she tugged Rand into the shadowed alley behind an all but collapsed bakery. The narrow passage was bursting with debris, but it gave them enough cover to slip out of sight. “We can’t risk the streets—not now. If anyone recognises you…” Guinevere shook her head, “there’s an inn just ahead,” she whispered, peering around the corner. “It looks quiet enough—if we’re lucky, no one there will care about who you are.” Or what you are , she didn’t add.

The inn’s weathered sign creaked over their heads, nearly ripped from its hinges by the raging winds. Inside, the common room was as good as empty, the air thick with the scent of damp sand and spilled ale. The place was old, and filthy beyond her experience, but it would serve her purpose just right. The odds of someone looking for them there were thin.  

Guinevere softly nudged Rand into a corner seat near the fire, and he didn’t argue, just let her lead him, one arm around his waist to keep him steady as they stumbled through the side entrance. There were only a few weary travelers huddled at the far end of the room, their voices hushed. The innkeeper barely glanced at them, too preoccupied with scrubbing the bar, though Guinevere caught the flicker of suspicion in her eye.

“Stay here,” she said softly, once the boy had sat down, as she brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead. “I’ll get us a room.”

Rand didn’t respond, only gave a faint nod, his gaze distant—as if seeing something far beyond the walls of the inn. She wondered what he was thinking about. Was it killing Ishamael? Being proclaimed the Dragon? Seeing his friends battle for his life? That ought to stir any sane person’s mind. 

Is he? Sane?

Still, she doubted any of such matters could pull him so far away from reality. The mere fact that she could pull him away from his friends without a single complaint from him remained a complete mystery to her. What is troubling that head of his?  

She had a way of getting him to tell her, but no, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t . Not to Rand. 

Guinevere approached the bar, leaning in to exchange quiet words with the innkeeper. Only when a small, crimson pouch—heavy with coin—was set between them did she finally turn, her gaze sweeping the room in search of Rand. Spotting him, she silently walked towards him and seized his arm, leading him up the stairs, down a damp hallway reeking of mold, until they reached a secluded, narrow room tucked away from prying eyes.

The latch settled into place with a dull click, the final barrier drawn between themselves and the storm-torn world outside. The air within the room was heavy, moist sea odor, abrasive of salt and the sweat of fear.

Rand stood next to the closed door, his face pale in the wavering candlelight, his hands hung loose at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling as though they longed to grip something , sword, fabric, perhaps her own hand, and dared not.

Guinevere stood beside the table, her fingers light upon the handle of the worn pitcher. There was nothing grand about the place, the bed was low and narrow, the blanket frayed, the wood of the floor uneven and swollen from years of damp. Yet the room seemed to press against her skin, growing smaller by the second, and a sense of unbearable confinement began running throughout her. Every inch of her body told her to run from him, to stay as far away as she could, to pull herself out of his life for the rest of her own, but she couldn’t bring herself to yield into such instincts. 

“Come you here,” she said at last, her voice low, but not unkind. “Lay yourself down, Rand. Your body is not yet whole, and you shall fare no better standing like some statue left in the rain.”

Rand’s lips curled in a humorless smile, but he obeyed, his limbs stiff, grace worn thin by weariness. He sat upon the edge of the bed, his head bowed, fingers lacing together between his knees. Guinevere knelt beside him, the floor cold beneath her, though she scarcely felt it.

First, she lifted his shirt, only the smallest bit, so she could take a better look at the injury caused by the dagger. She had Healed what she could, but it had remained a dark, vicious wound where the blade had broken his skin. Only time would cure such a thing. Guinevere softly placed his shirt down once again, and brought the jar into her arms. 

Rand looked so worn out, so tired. His gaze was set aimlessly on the floor, his mind immersed in chaos. She raised a trembling hand and placed it on his cheek, rubbing her thumb against his sand-eroded skin. He flinched, not from pain, but from the touch itself, the softness of it, the memory it carried. She had done this before, in another room, beneath another sky, when they had still been foolish enough to believe themselves masters of their fate. 

Guinevere dipped the cloth into the cool water, wringing it out with steady hands before running it gently down the side of Rand’s throat. His pulse fluttered beneath her fingertips, uneven, fragile, as though his body had yet to catch up with everything it had endured. She traced the damp cloth over his chest, then down to his hands, her touch slow and deliberate, as if she could smooth away the tremors that still lingered in his fingers. At last, she reached for his chin, tenderly tilting it upward, though his eyes kept avoiding hers.

She had already Healed everything within her power—every wound, every scrape. But some things could not be mended with the One Power. The mind left its own scars, ones even the strongest weave could not erase. Sure, she could take some of his tiredness away, but they both needed her as alert as possible. 

“You should sleep,” she finally murmured, softly patting the cold cloth over his forehead. 

Rand laughed, and the sound was soft and bitter. “I believe myself unable to catch any sleep as of now.”

“Well, I could help you with that.” Guinevere sighed, brushing a smear of ash away from his cheek, before she felt his palm over hers, softly pressing onto his skin. “Rand, what is it?” She asked, a worrisome frown showing on her face. “Rand?”

Only then did the boy lift his gaze, his eyes locking onto hers with a quiet intensity, as if searching her face for answers she could not give. His voice, when it came, was soft—almost weary, almost resigned. “What dreams would come for me now, do you think?” 

The cloth paused, as Guinevere’s breath hitched. She set it aside with a quivering motion, her hands folded in her lap. Dreams? Could it be…? No, that was impossible. 

“Don’t be silly,” she anxiously chuckled, “what… what dreams could come for you?” Guinevere attempted a smile, but it faltered before it could fully form. “Is it Lanfear? Are you afraid she’ll find you? Because I can protect you from it if—”

This time, it was Rand who seized her face, his grip firm yet trembling, forcing her to meet his gaze. In the flickering candlelight, his eyes burned—bright, feverish, relentless. “You have seen them.” 

There was no question in it.

“I—I’m afraid the fever might be speaking for you,” Guinevere said with a nervous whisper. “You really should get some sleep, Rand,” she insisted, pushing herself up, attempting to free herself from the approaching accusations. But before she could rise, his hand caught her wrist, holding her in place.

“Don’t lie to me, Gwen,” he whispered, his voice barely holding together, fraying at the edges like a thread pulled too thin. There was no anger in it, only quiet, aching desperation. “Not you.”

Guinevere’s eyes flooded with tears as she tore her gaze away, staring out the window. She bit down on her lip, hard enough to draw blood, desperate to silence the sob clawing its way up her throat. She couldn’t face him—not now. Her hands twisted together in her lap, trembling, knuckles white with the force of her grip. She hadn’t turned to face him yet, but she felt it—his hatred, sharp as a blade at her back. The silent, desperate plea woven beneath it, the longing for her to deny his words, to make it untrue. But she couldn’t. An Aes Sedai cannot lie.

“I—I have,” she choked out, her voice barely more than a whimper. Tears started to pool in her eyes, salty and abrasive, like everything else in this place. 

“How long?” Rand’s voice was a blade drawn slowly from the sheath, drenched in betrayal.

“Years,” Guinevere whispered, as teardrops threatened to fall through her cheeks. “S—since I was a child, I have seen them. Heard them,” she added, with a soft, harrowing murmur. 

Rand’s breath hissed through his teeth. He stood, too sudden, too unsteady, pacing the narrow room like a beast whose cage had shrunk too small. “You knew,” he said, voice trembling with the weight of it. “You knew what we were to each other, and you said nothing.”

“I knew not what it meant!” Guinevere rose as well, her fists at her sides. “Would you have had me come to you and say I dreamt of children not yet born? Would you have believed me, had I told you I knew their faces before I knew yours?”

“You might have tried,” Rand said, his voice rough. “You might have trusted me.”

“I trusted myself not,” she snapped. Tears were now pouring freely from her eyes, weary and rimmed with redness, carrying the exhaustion of it all. “I thought myself mad. I did not understand what these dreams meant, not until… not until Moiraine explained—”

His breath came hard and uneven, his hands curling into fists. “Moiraine… Moiraine!” He snapped, fist striking the wall. “You shouldn’t trust what that woman says—”

“No, Rand… Rand,” she urged him, closing the distance between them, her back to the door, placing her hands on his chest, in a foolish attempt to calm him down, “I do believe she is your best—”

“All she’s ever done is lie to me!” He yelled back. “Manipulate me into doing what she believes must be done. Who’s to say she’s not manipulating us now?”

Guinevere stepped back, her spine striking the door. She raised a trembling, accusatory finger towards him. “You’ve seen them, Rand.” She muttered, lips quivering in between salty tears. “Moiraine is not manipulating us. Lanfear isn’t either. Tell me, in truth, you don’t hear their screams. There is no one fooling ourselves but us now.”

Rand’s hand struck the door beside her head, not with violence, but with trembling desperation. “Then tell me to leave you be,” he said, and his voice was supposed to be an order but it didn’t quite manage to do so. “Command me, Guinevere.”

Her hands trembled where they rested against his chest. “Go,” she whispered, her voice breaking upon the single word. “Leave me. I don’t wish you near me.”

Rand’s fingers curled into her hair, tilting her face to his. “Liar,” he breathed, and then his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was not gentle, it was war, the clash of lips and breath, of memory and fear and a longing too ancient and to deny, they felt it deep in their bones. His hands clutched at her, tangling in her skirts, pulling her flush against him, her breasts crushed to his chest. Her nails raked his shoulders, and he only pressed closer, the ache of her fingers like proof of his reality.

Guinevere’s back struck the wall, and he pressed his body to hers, the force of his thigh parting her legs beneath her skirts. His hands were rough, tracing the line of her waist, finding the laces that bound her bodice and tugging with too much force, the fabric rasping apart.

She gasped against his mouth, but her hands found him in turn, unlacing his shirt, her fingers tracing the warm skin beneath it. His breath caught, and she felt the shiver race through him, not fear, not hesitation, but some terrible, aching relief.

They fell to the bed, as her skirts undid around her hips, his hand sliding beneath, fingers tracing the soft skin of her bare thigh. Her head fell back with a soft moan, exposing her throat, and his mouth found the curve of it, biting hard enough to mark her. She arched beneath him, nails digging into his back.

“I should know better,” she whispered, breathless.

“As I should know better,” he said, his mouth tracing the line of her collarbone. “Yet here we are.”

His fingers slid higher, finding the damp heat of her, and her gasp was sharp, her body arching into his hand. There was no gentleness in this, no slow seduction, only need, raw and clumsy and too long desired. His mouth found her breast, his tongue flicking over her nipple, his teeth grazing her skin just shy of pain.

Her hands fumbled at his belt, pushing his breeches down over his hips, her fingers finding him hard, burning hot in her palm. He groaned into her skin, his body shuddering against hers.

He entered her with no preamble, the stretch sharp, a gasp torn from her throat, his own breath ragged as he pressed into her, inch by inch, until there was no space left between them. 

Sweat clung to their bare skin, thick and sticky, pooling in the hollows of their bodies where they pressed together. The heat between them grew unbearable, the damp friction at their chests and thighs turning raw. Soon enough, neither could tell where the sweat ended and the tears began. Their hands clasped together above her head, fingers interlocked, bodies moving as though they had always known each other, not just in this life but in every life before. 

But just as her body began to tighten around him, as his whimpers grew ragged and hot against her throat, the screaming started ringing through their minds.

“Mama!”

Guinevere’s body went still, her hands clenching around his fingers.

Rand froze, his weight sinking onto her, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps.

“Father, please!” The voice was everywhere, in the walls, in their very bones.

Guinevere shoved at his chest, harsh fists filled with agony pushing him away, scrambling from beneath him, hands clamped over her ears. Rand sat back, shaking, his head bowed, his own hands tangled in his hair.

“We cannot escape them,” she whispered.

“No,” Rand said, his voice hoarse. “We cannot.”

They sat apart, the weight of the past, present, and future echoing on both their minds. 

Outside, the wind screamed with them.

The grey light of dawn seeped through the narrow window, faint as breath, pale as a ghost. The storm had passed in the night, leaving only the scent of damp wood and salt clinging to the air, mingling with the faint, lingering scent of sweat and skin.

Guinevere lay upon her side, her naked back to Rand, the thin blanket pulled high over her shoulder. The air between them was thick, not with warmth, but with silence. Heavy, suffocating, woven from things neither dared speak aloud.

He had not touched her since the scream shattered the dark. His hand had lain beside hers for a time, fingers curled loosely, just shy of touching. But at some point, she knew not when, he had drawn it back.

They had not spoken.

Guinevere’s body ached, though she could not say from what, from the desperate, bruising way they had clung to each other, or from the way she had curled in upon herself once it was done, heart pounding, skin burning, shame and grief and something far too ancient to name coiling within her like a serpent. Her thighs were sore, her lips tender, her neck marked where his mouth had been. But it was the silence that stung most of all.

They did not dare look at each other.

The bed was too narrow to allow much space between them, yet somehow it felt like a chasm, wide and impassable. Her back felt too bare, exposed to him, yet she could not bring herself to turn, to face him, to see her own regret reflected in his eyes.

She bit the inside of her cheek until the taste of blood filled her mouth.

The Wheel had played this game with them before, drawing them together only to tear them apart. In every life, the same bitter dance. And in every life, it seemed, they swore they would not let it happen again.

But it had.

Again.

She stared at the wall, tracing the cracks in the plaster with her eyes, trying to anchor herself in the smallness of the room, the ordinary flaws in its surface, anything to keep from thinking of his hands on her, his mouth against hers, the way her body had known him as though they had lain together a thousand times before.

Because they had.

Rand shifted behind her, the mattress creaking. He was awake. He had been awake for hours, just as she had.

The words she should say—could say—crowded behind her teeth, but none of them broke free. What would they matter? They had no power here. Not in the face of the truth they both knew too well.

There was no future for them. There never had been.

He sat up at last, the blanket slipping from his back, and she heard the rustle of fabric as he reached for his shirt. He dressed in silence, each movement careful, almost reverent, as though trying not to disturb her, though he must have known she was awake.

Guinevere did not move. Her body was stone, her breath measured, her hands fisted in the blankets beneath her chin.

She waited for him to speak. To say anything, some halfhearted apology, some cold attempt at explaining away what they had done. But none came.

When at last she heard the door open, the chill air slipping in around him, she thought for a moment he would leave without a word.

But he paused in the doorway.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, and his voice was softer than it should have been—tender even, though it trembled at the edges. She saw him take gentle steps towards her, and he kneeled down to leave a soft, loving kiss on her cheek, his hand caressing her neck where his mouth had marked her, as the other delicately brushed against sickly skin over her cheeks. Guinevere closed her eyes at his touch. “I’m sorry for last night.” He eventually said, with a mournful whimper.

Guinevere bit her lips, to prevent angry sobs from escaping them, before responding. “I’m sorry too.”

She felt Rand press his forehead against hers, before the warmth of his body was gone all of the sudden. “Rest, Gwen,” he heard him say from the hallway. She briskly opened her eyes, and became painfully aware of how naked she was and how little the blanket did to cover her. 

“Rand, you mustn’t leave the room,” Guinevere urged him, tiredly, “you know that,” she added, with a final whisper. 

But then the latch clicked shut behind him.

She sat up slowly, her body protesting, her skin bearing the ghost of his touch. The room felt hollow, emptied of air, though her heart still pounded in her chest.

She washed herself with water gone cold in the basin, scrubbing her skin as though she could erase what had been done, as though her own hands had not clutched at him just as fiercely, her own voice had not broken on his name. The bruises would fade, they always did.

The memory would not.

She braided her hair with steady hands, smoothed the creases from her dress, what was left of it at least. By the time she reached the door, her face was smooth, her back straight, her shoulders squared. A Daughter of House Damodred. A Sister of the Yellow Ajah. Not a woman who had wept beneath her lover’s hands, hearing the voices of her unborn children echo through the dark.

The stairs creaked beneath her feet as she descended, the scent of stale ale and smoke curling up to meet her. She couldn’t feel him around, and the terrible fear of him slipping through her fingers, into the ones of a Darkfriend, or even worse, a Forsaken, started to shiver down her spine. 

Nonetheless, Guinevere stepped into the common room, her smile polite, her face serene. She had worn the mask for so long, it was easy to slip back into it.

Guinevere turned toward the bar, but her steps faltered the moment her gaze swept the room.

At a table near the window, half-shrouded in shadow, sat a man wrapped in a patchwork cloak, his fingers idly plucking at the strings of a harp resting against his knee. He had not been there the day before, Guinevere would’ve noticed him. His hair was silvered with age, his beard neatly trimmed, but it wasn’t the lines on his face that caught her breath.

It was the shape of him, the set of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw, something both eerily and achingly familiar, though she couldn’t place why.

The gleeman’s gaze lifted from his harp, meeting hers for the briefest heartbeat. Something flickered there, curiosity, perhaps, or the slightest echo of recognition, like hearing a tune he almost remembered.

Before she could look away, the man signaled for her to approach him. Guinevere discreetly looked around her, to make sure there wasn’t anyone else he was pointing at, but his gaze was unmistakably set on her.

Guinevere moved toward him with careful steps, her skirts whispering against the wooden floor. As she approached the table, she took quick stock of what he carried: a harp, resting lightly in his lap for all to see. A knife, hidden where he thought no one would notice. A travel-worn bag, slouched against his chair, its weight suggesting enough coin to survive—but not enough to thrive.

He was a man who knew how to survive on the road. That alone made him dangerous.

She did not sit until she had measured him thoroughly.

The man plucked a lazy note from his harp, a half-smile playing at the corner of his lips. “So, tell me, child,” he said, and his voice was melodic and smooth as aged wine. “What’s your name?”

“I’m not a child,” Guinevere protested, her voice high-pitched and stubborn enough to lead him into believing she was one indeed, or so she thought. 

He gave a low, ashy laugh, shaking his head. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He leaned back in his chair, studying her with something close to amusement. “No harm meant, girl. I’m only looking for someone.”

Guinevere tensed. “Who?”

The gleeman let his fingers dance idly along the strings of his harp, playing a wandering tune. “Why, the Dragon Reborn, of course,” he said, his voice almost playful. “Who else?”

The words landed like a stone in her stomach.

Of course. A gleeman would be looking for Rand. Rumors didn’t walk on their own. They were carried by men like him.

She tilted her head, feigning mild amusement. “The Dragon Reborn?” she repeated, tapping a thoughtful finger against the worn surface of the table. “You must be a man who listens to a great deal of foolish tales, then.”

The gleeman only smiled. “Oh, I listen to everything. Sometimes foolish tales have the ring of truth, if you know how to hear it.”

Guinevere held his gaze, keeping her expression carefully neutral. “And what would a gleeman want with the Dragon Reborn?”

The man plucked another note, tilting his head as if considering. “What does anyone want with him?” He let the words hang in the air before adding, “Maybe I’m just curious.”

“Curiosity gets men killed.”

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling with something like genuine delight. “And yet, here I sit.”

Guinevere inhaled slowly. If this man was after Rand, he could be anyone, an agent of some noble house, an informant for the Tower, or something far worse. He didn’t look like a Darkfriend. But then again, neither did most.

She had to throw him off the trail.

“There are many tales,” she said smoothly, letting a small, coy smile play on her lips. “Some say the Dragon Reborn was spotted crossing the Erinin three days ago. Or was it the Alguenya?” She frowned, as if struggling to recall. “The trouble with rumors is that they never seem to agree, do they?”

The gleeman watched her, the flickering firelight casting deep shadows across his face. His fingers idly stroked the harp strings, but she could feel the weight of his silence.

“No, they don’t,” he said finally. “Yet you don’t seem the type to trade in rumors alone.”

Guinevere shrugged one shoulder. “I trade in what’s useful.”

A smile ghosted his lips. “That, I believe.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them was thick with unspoken meaning, with quiet assessments, with the delicate game of weighing truths against half-truths.

Then, at last, the gleeman leaned back, exhaling softly. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to keep looking.” He plucked a final, lazy note from his harp, then reached for his bag. 

But just as he was rising, he paused. His gaze swept over her once more, slower this time, as though he were seeing something he had missed before. His brows furrowed, his mouth quirking in something like recognition.

He raised a hesitant hand towards her, before he tenderly brushed on a strand of her hair. Guinevere found it strange, but for some reason his touch felt comforting, safe even. She gazed into his eyes, and almost recognised herself in them. “You know, girl,” the man sighed, leaving one final caress on her chin, before stepping back, “you’ve got your aunt’s look about you.”

Guinevere froze.

Her heart slammed against her ribs and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

The mask nearly slipped, the carefully trained serenity, the unshakable poise, but she caught herself just in time.

She swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, I think you would.” The gleeman’s eyes lingered on her for a breath longer, before he exhaled softly. 

Guinevere hesitated, then lifted her chin. She knew she was being reckless, but something instinctive, almost demonic had taken over her. “And if I encounter him, who should I say was looking for him?”

He smiled, the kind of smile that belonged to a man who had seen too much and survived anyway. “Thom,” he said, turning toward the door, his cloak swirling around him like a storm cloud, his harp slung across his back.“Thom Merrilin.”

Guinevere did not stop him, and when Rand came back, accompanied by Moiraine and Lan, she did not tell them that Thom Merrilin had come looking for him.

He was only a gleeman, after all.

[markantonys]

something i just thought of in the "will siuan live or die in the coup" speculation: moiraine's letter that sets up her finnland rescue! this has pushed me onto the side of siuan will live, for the reasons below.

assumptions about the way the show will do things + conclusions i can draw from these assumptions:

like in the books, moiraine will not really die but will be trapped in finnland and need to be rescued by a team of people including mat (evidence: mat has gotten some Missing Eye foreshadowing in the show already)

like in the books, moiraine will give rand a letter before she "dies", which she instructs him to give to a member of the future rescue team.

the future rescue team will consist of 3 people, like in the books: 1) mat, 2) thom (book canon choice, could rescue moiraine platonically in the show) or siuan (sub in as moiraine's show love interest for a romantic rescue), and 3) noal (book canon choice) or birgitte (imo much better option for the "party member with previous experience with the tower of ghenjei due to their colorful past, who sacrifices themselves during the rescue and comes back as a hero of the horn in the last battle" slot)

like in the books, the letter will say "i'm still alive but you can't tell anyone else until and unless [x specific circumstance is met], because i saw the future and things must happen in a certain order to have a chance of success"

it would be a bad idea to give the letter to mat because if he opened it and it said "hi mat, it's moiraine, i'm actually alive but you can't tell anyone yet" he would tell everyone immediately, or even if he did manage to keep it to himself, he would constantly be in a noticeable tizzy about it for the rest of the show; therefore, the letter should go to a rescue team member who would be capable of sitting on the information and acting outwardly serene about the letters' contents until the time is right.

particularly key assumption: the audience (at least the portion who don't know book spoilers) needs to genuinely think moiraine is dead or at least feel genuinely uncertain about it, because rand's and lan's and all the characters' grief for her would be cheapened if we feel immediately certain she isn't really dead. lan struggling with the loss is a huge emotional arc for him, and rand carries her "death" as a huge burden of guilt for the rest of the series; these emotional truths for the characters would be severely undercut for the audience if we immediately know more than they do and go into s4 watching them grieve for someone we're already certain isn't actually dead, and the story would suffer for it.

therefore, moiraine giving rand a letter to give to someone else needs to seem innocuous enough that neither the audience nor rand suspects anything fishy is afoot.

therefore, siuan makes the most sense as the letter recipient because both rand and the audience know that moiraine loves siuan, so we would assume this letter is nothing more than a goodbye note to her love and we would not immediately suspect that there might be more to it. (particularly if moiraine also gives letters to lan and/or rand that ARE just goodbye letters? i think that's what happens in the book, but i don't remember. anyway, if moiraine's like "here's one letter for my wife, one letter for my warder, and one letter for my son" that truly would seem like she's just saying goodbye to her 3 closest loved ones.)

by contrast, in showverse, moiraine doesn't know thom or know that rand knows him, and so it would deeply startle both rand and the audience for her to suddenly give rand a letter to give to thom, and this would make us suspicious. same for the third rescue team member, whether it be noal or birgitte or a secret other option. heck, even mat would be a suspicious choice for moiraine to send a letter to on the eve of her death, since they are not notably close right now. i would argue that the only people show!moiraine could send a Death's Eve letter to that wouldn't strike us as odd are siuan or lan or rand, and THE letter can't go to lan or rand because their emotional arcs depend on not knowing moiraine is alive (plus they can't be rescue team members since they're busy with other plot obligations at that time).

ooooh, this way we could even get a little reversal of that book moment when they think siuan is dead and egwene's like "won't you even cry for her, moiraine? or are you completely heartless?" but this time with egwene saying that to siuan about moiraine, and siuan isn't crying because she knows moiraine might have a chance of survival!

as a side note, just thinking about thom vs. siuan as the rescue team member, with the way the show has set stuff up, it of course makes a lot more narrative and emotional sense for it to be siuan. if thom was the one, that would be a narrative choice made for *mat* and the emotional impact the rescue sequence has on him, since thom is his buddy so yeah sure makes sense for thom to be by his side for this mission, but it would have no effect on moiraine since she's never met thom in showverse. but if siuan is the one, that has an emotional impact on both moiraine AND mat, because siuan is moiraine's lover and because siuan and mat will become acquainted in the tower this season and she'll give him her book speech about heroes thinking they're only doing what they need to do (which could circle back around in an emotional way later when siuan sees mat risk his life and give up his eye to save moiraine and then claim he was only doing what he needed to do :')). likewise, the audience would be much more moved by siuan helping rescue moiraine than thom helping rescue her.

[queen-of-andor]

One change I really don't mind them doing on the show is keeping Moiraine x Siuan endgame, instead of pairing them off with Thom Merillin and Gareth Bryne.

Actually, I really hope they'll change it to Siuaraine.

[two-ponds-and-a-bowtie]

if we cut out moiraine x thom, siuan x gareth and also morgase x tallanvor then I will simply give rafe my soul because THANK YOU

[usernamesuggestionsarefunny]

I know many of you love Siuan and Moiraine, so I hope they don't do Thom x Moiraine.

But I do hope Thom Merrilin gets a random plot-irrelevant romance with some random original character or something, for me, cause the actor in the show is hot. Especially when he sings as if he were some famous, talented, tortured rock star past his prime who was a big deal back in his days.

[dlrconlicense]

9 people you want to know better tag

Tagged by: @smarthily I've been meaning to do this! I finally found time to sit down and do it this week. Thanks for the tag!

Three Ships: Sherlolly, Hera/Kanan, Strangeolly

First Ship: if it's English-language media, it's probably Sherlolly.

Last Song: Mayday feat Emil Chau - A Life of Fighting is but a Dream (Live)

Last Movie: TMNT Mutant Mayhem

Currently Reading: all the Moiraine/Thom fics available on AO3 (rare pairing indeed, but a lot of them flesh out the pair in a decent way...also looking at the Moiraine/Lan fics just because)

Currently Watching: Loki S02, Spy x Family S03

Currently Consuming: Tea

Currently Craving: Cheddar Jack Cheez-Its

Tagging (Apologize in advance if didn't want to be tagged): @endspire, @englandsgray, @musicprincess1990, @colonialfire24, @miabicicletta, @missmollybloom, @garuda-dreams-of-rain, @hobbitsdoitbetter, @writingwife-83

[inmydrcams]

I thought the moiraine x thom thing would end up making some sense......

[wheelofdisasters]

Thom: I had a girlfriend once. Sometimes I can still hear her voice.

Moiraine: We got married six hours ago, shut up.

[rationalnerd62]

I always find it hilarious when people gives the "But what about Thom/Gareth?" excuse whenever a Moiraine x Siuan endgame is mentioned.

Are you trying to say that those male characters are only defined by their relationships to someone and thus could be removed if those relationships were not present in the show? Because that's what I'm hearing here...

Let Thom be Mat's mentor without randomly putting him into a relationship with a woman he has seen less than a month in his whole life, and, if Gareth isn't cut/merged in the show, let him be a great General without adding some weird servant/master relationship to him.

Considering how much of a master Jordan was on the romance side (big sarcasm here), all of those characters will do great without some "appearing out of nowhere" Thom/Moiraine or some "kinda problematic" Gareth/Siuan 🙄.

[vulpixenthusiast]

BOOK SPOILERS SORT OF BEWARE

---------------

Listen. Listen. LISTEN. Both moiraine and siuan are wearing red robes in that scene bc reds don't have WARDERS. They don't have "their" men, they have each other and themselves therefore, foreshadowing their endgame.

[skyholly]

The best kept secret

Summary: What if Moiraine had a baby daughter she and Siuan were forced to leave to Anvaere to raise as her own?

moiraine/siuan

Chapter 1 here!

Chapter 2 here!

Chapter 3 here!

Chapter 4 here!

Chapter 5 here!

Chapter 6 here!

Chapter 7 here!

Chapter 8 here!

****************

Chapter 9. Rand

She’s a mirage , Rand thought in disbelief, his eyes softening with affection nonetheless, then I must be dying already . But what a precious sight she was; death really could not greet him with kinder hands than to have her be his last vision. Despite his vision being blurred, he could still make out her figure, dressed in a lavender-coloured gown, pale and soft against the glow of her skin; he could make out the warmth of her hair, the ever-present brightness and kindness in her eyes. She was so lovely, as lovely a sight as there could be. Ilyena, Gwen, he loved them both the same. 

“Gwen,” Rand breathed her name, his lips curling into a peaceful smile, his voice laced with a tender sweetness. The pain pouring from the venomous dagger embedded in his side spread through his entire body, feeling as if it were scorching his muscles, bones and skin away. His vision was foggy, but he could still discern Guinevere rushing towards him, painfully kneeling above the debris by his side, her arms instinctively reaching for his blood-tainted stomach. The warmness of her skin against his overcame any pain he might have been feeling, and suddenly his mind became clear once again. She’s real… she’s real and she’s here, he realised, his heart sinking into his stomach. That cannot be. She shouldn’t be here. Ishamael is here, she will get hurt — “W-what are you doing here?” Rand heard himself stutter, voice shaken with apprehension, “How did you get here? I thought Lanfear…”

The girl promptly shushed him, as she delicately traced his injury with her fingers, as she closed her eyes, imperceptibly reaching for the Source. Rand stared in awe at his torn skin starting to heal itself back together, stopping the bleeding and the poison from spreading any further. In only mere seconds there was nothing left but a darkened, muddy mark over his skin where the knife had been once buried. He lifted his gaze to Guinevere, his eyes filled with devotion, before Egwene’s screams of pain brought him crashing back to the harsh reality of their situation. All of his dearest friends were there, endangered because of Ishamael, because of him, it was his fault they had been caught up in such a mess. You will carry the weight of their deaths. 

“Rand, Rand!” Mat urged him, softly shaking his shoulders. It took Rand a moment to realise he was lying on his friend’s arms. “You’re gonna have to do something.”

The readheaded boy lethargically raised his hand, trying to reach for the Source, but found nothing but a void in its place. He felt harrowingly empty. 

“I- I can’t,” he blubbered, drowsily starting to remember the events that had taken place prior to Mat throwing that dagger at his stomach, “I’m shielded.” 

Rand heard someone nervously sigh by his side, and saw Guinevere close her eyes in desperation, clutching the blue stone hanging over her chest as if in prayer. And then suddenly, he sensed the weaves that restricted him starting to grow weaker, and the shield over him fell apart, he could feel the Source once again, almost begging for his touch. Or is it the other way around? He heard Guinevere exhale a shaky ‘thank you’, before letting a lonely tear fall through her cheek. 

He stumbled out of Mat’s hold, screeching resounding in his ears, as Perrin and Gwen helped him up, and he walked towards Egwene, whose breath and stability were growing weaker by the second due to her efforts to protect them from Ishamael’s attacks. Gwen attempted to follow him, but he gently pushed her into Perrin’s arms, away from any possible danger. He could practically feel the girl’s fury showing on her face, but didn’t look back. 

Rand reached Egwene’s side, as her shield that had protected them faltered away, and picked his sword from the ground right next to her, the heron mark on its hilt dangerously shimmering under the sun. He walked with steady, fast steps towards Ishamael, reaching for the Source, letting it engulf him whole; and a grunt left his lips as he embedded the sword right into the man’s chest. Rand knew he was doing the correct thing, for he was both protecting his friends and the world by killing him, but he couldn’t help but feel a pang of something he couldn’t describe in any other way but grief, as he kept pushing the tip further into the Ishamael’s heart. The blade’s iron melted itself into the One Power, digging a fiery hole into the Forsaken’s chest, and then with a thud the sword’s hilt crashed futile into the ground. Rand felt a scorching sensation sear through his hand, and his eyes widened in astonishment as he looked down to find a heron shaped mark burned into his skin. He tried to make sense of it for a moment, but got distracted. With a painful groan, Ishamael quietly dropped to his knees, his whole body following afterwards, raising a cloud of dust around him. 

The redheaded boy stood over him, still in shock, amidst a silence so profound he was certain he could hear a pin drop.

“Its…” Ishamael mumbled, struggling to breath, “it’s beautiful. Do you see it, Lews?”

Rand shivered at the mention of the name. It felt both distant and unnervingly close, like a step into an abyss from which he could never return. “What do you see?” He asked, eyebrows frowning in confusion. 

“Nothing.” The man whispered, as the hole in his chest turned into ashes, corruption that started to spread throughout his entire body. “Nothing at all,” Ishamael finally said, before his whole being turned into dust, drawn into the turbulent air hitting above the tower. Rand sensed his eyes filled with tears, knowing he’d done the right thing, yet somehow feeling as if he had just lost a dear friend to him. 

He became startled by the sound of bells echoing all over the city, and he raised his head to golden weaves of Power that burned like the fire start encircling the tower, rising to its top, where all of the group stood still almost paralysed in distress. Rand followed the bursts of fire and light, seeking for their source as he made his way towards the edge of the Tower, with Guinevere closely behind. There, they witnessed the bursts of fire coalescing into the unmistakable form of a dragon. Gwen let out a frail gasp, one of her hands covering over her open mouth and the other instinctively reaching for his, clutching it in dread. The flaming dragon rose over them, heated screeches coming out of his fiery mouth, and Rand firmly pulled Guinevere further into his side, encircling her waist with his hand. 

She drew her gaze up towards him in a wavering motion, desperately meeting his eyes, “ ‘ Above the Watchers shall the Dragon be proclaimed… ” Guinevere recited, “ bannered ‘cross the sky in fire .’ This is Moiraine’s doing,” she breathed, eyes glistening with sorrowful tears, as she gently put her hands over her cheeks, tiptoeing so their foreheads could touch, “the world will now think of you as Dragon Reborn, Rand, and she thinks you stand ready for it.” 

The boy stared back at her for a couple of seconds, tightening the grip on her waist, as he looked down, towards the cheering crowds; men and women embracing each other, embracing their children, embracing their friends, smiles drawn across their bloody faces. He drew in a trembling breath. He wasn’t sure he was ready for such a weight to be placed upon his shoulders. 

As if she had read his thoughts, Guinevere gently forced his eyes towards hers back again, as she tenderly caressed his cheeks. “You’re not alone in this,” she affirmed, nodding, biting her lips. 

Rand lowered his gaze, his eyes studying their surroundings, and found the rest of his friends joining them at the edge of the tower, all of them staring in awe at the acclaiming crowds below them, as the dragon’s roars resounded over them, and realised Gwen was right, he wasn’t alone anymore. And that remained his biggest problem.

He needed to prove himself, to prove himself worthy of carrying such a mighty banner, and he couldn’t bring himself to endanger his friends, endanger Guinevere because of it. He realised then he had no choice but to leave his friends, once again.

But he could afford a moment’s waiting. For now, he could appreciate the friends that surrounded him, the trust, love and support he felt from them, for he knew how fleeting such sentiments would be. He rubbed Guinevere’s back, feeling the warmth emanating from the dragon’s breath over her ragged clothes. He felt her skin through the tears of her gown, and couldn’t help but think about the torture Lanfear had put her through, and the lengths she must have gone through in order to reach him, to save him. Rand left a shy, sudden kiss on Guinevere’s forehead. And for an instant, everything felt alright.

*****

Author's note: So this is it, the "final" chapter. I write "final" because there WILL be an epilogue (an 10th chapter) but I will only start writing it once I finish proofreading and HEAVILY editing these past 9 chapters, which could take as much as a month even.

I really hope you've enjoyed the story this far; in the meantime (and risking being greedy), I'd really appreciate it if you could share this story with people you think will enjoy it. As most of you know, I haven't read the books, so I'd love some new insight on how the caracters behave, on the world building, and maybe possibly a beta reader to help me bring all of this together more neatly.

The epilogue will be very out of both show and book canon, and YES, there will be a Moiraine and Guinevere reunion, and a little bit of a Siuan's POV.

To answer another requested question, I WILL continue this story after Season 3 airs, most possibly with a different title, but under the same series.

Once again, I cannot possibly express how much your comments mean to me and how encouraging they are, I really hope you haven't been dissapointed with the turns the story has taken and that you've found it engaging, enough to make you wait for the epilogue ahah.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this and leave kudos and comments, we'll see each other soon I hope!

[barid-bel-medar]

Wheel of Time au where it goes mostly to canon, but Moiraine and Suian are married and their 'relationships' with Thom and Gareth are in reality a really weird form of courtship for Gareth/Thom

[the-stone-of-queer]

Bashing Thom/Moiraine bc their connection pales in comparison to hers and Siuan's: good

Bashing Thom/Moiraine bc you want her to be with a woman: biphobic

[gaslight-gatekeep-gleeman]

people who liked them and wrote essays about foreshadowing moiraine/thom and what a good match they were, what shrooms have you had, gimme some, i want to see what the hell you've seen. moiraine/siuan 4ever.

I hope I'm not the only one hoping that the TV show will drop the whole Moiraine/Thom thing, since it kinda came out of nowhere, to give us the endgame Moiraine/Siuan we deserve

[inmydrcams]

I thought the moiraine x thom thing would end up making some sense......