#there could have been an interesting storyline for how the shift from shimmer to the commune is still about addressing the basic needs | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hookedonapirate · 4 years ago

Text

Through the Rising Tide

Thank you so much for the beautiful graphic @itsfabianadocarmo!

Summary: The Jones brothers are polar opposites. Liam's the safe and honorable one, straight-laced and straight as an arrow. The good son.

Killian's the dangerous one, the bad boy with tats, leather jackets, a motorcycle and a questionable past.

The only things they have in common are panty-melting sea-blue eyes, the flat they share in Storybrooke and a rare blood type.

Oh, and apparently their taste in women.

Or rather, one woman.

Feisty.

Blonde.

Gorgeous.

Green-eyed Goddess.

Killian saw her first, but she chose his brother—the nice guy over the playboy. And even though she’s dating his brother, it doesn't make him want her any less. If that's not bad enough, she moves in with them and he has to pretend he's not completely in love with her. His life could not get any worse…

Until Liam dies in a tragic motorcycle accident.

Leaving each of them with one half of a broken heart.

Now Killian and Emma are left helping each other pick up the pieces.

Just as they're beginning to learn how to live in their new reality, another riptide pulls them further into the deep end when she finds out she's pregnant with Liam's baby.

Notes: Because I’ve received some comments saying that this fic is “inscestuous” EVEN THOUGH I CLEARLY SAID IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THIS IDEA TO HIT THE BACK BUTTON, I feel like I have to repeat myself and make it louder and clearer for the people in the back: If you're not comfortable with Emma and Killian’s relationship after she is with Liam, or if the idea of Emma being with both brothers at different times makes you squick or is cringy to you, THIS FIC IS NOT FOR YOU AND YOU ARE NOT INVITED TO READ SO HIT THE BACK BUTTON RIGHT NOW. I repeat, if the storyline makes you squick or is cringy to you, THIS FIC IS NOT FOR YOU AND YOU ARE NOT INVITED TO READ SO HIT THE BACK BUTTON RIGHT NOW! For everyone else, please enjoy!

Thank you @ultraluckycatnd for looking it over!

This story was inspired by Baby Mine by Kennedy Fox, and I loved the book so much and thought it was very much underrated. I’ve wanted to write a fic like this for a long time now because it’s one of my favorite tropes, but after I read that book, I just had to write my own take. Also, I made this post about a Baby Yodarita drink last year when it was trending and since the beginning of this story starts one year prior, 2019 and since Killian is a bartender, it was a perfect way to include the prompt.

The title comes from the lyrics of the song, Lay By Me by Ruben. The particular line goes like this:

"I hope you know through the rising tide That I'll be here and you can lay by my side"

If you've never heard it, I recommend giving it a listen. It's an amazing song and very fitting for this story.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VFJbLzEtoZw

P.S. In case you're unable to read the shoulder tattoo in the picture above and are wondering what it says—

"There is no happiness without tears

No life without death

And no true love without heartbreak"

Rated: Explicit for smut (including sexual fantasies, masturbation, implied and detailed sex, etc.) and language (lots of F-bombs).

Also available on: AO3 FF.N

One Week Later…

“I’m so sorry I'm late,” Ruby apologizes profusely as she scurries across the bar and rounds the counter. “Please don't fire me,” she pleads, her words full of panic. “I promise it won't happen again.”

Killian arches a brow, thoroughly amused as he watches her haul ass. Is Ruby Red actually worried about losing her job?

Well, this is a first.

Liam looks up from the paperwork in his hands and actually smiles as he waves off her words. “Don’t worry about it, Rubes.” As he turns around and casually heads into his office... he’s fucking whistling.

What the hell?

Killian and Ruby exchange bewildered looks.

This isn't the only time Liam has left them perplexed lately. He's been easy on his staff all week.

The question is, what the fuck changed?

There can only be one explanation—Liam met someone. He knows this because Liam was like this when he met his last girlfriend. Very lenient and cheerful and whistling all the time. But last time, he told Killian about her. So why hasn’t he said anything this time?

“I think your brother is broken,” Ruby remarks.

Killian chuckles and tosses the bar cloth over his shoulder. “Or pussy whipped.”

Ruby furrows her brows. “I thought you said him not getting laid wasn’t the issue?”

Killian shakes his head. “No, him not getting laid is why he’s in such a good mood.”

Ruby’s even more perplexed, not understanding how being sex-deprived could possibly put Liam in a good mood. “Huh?”

Killian smirks. “He met some lass, and she hasn’t put out yet. Which, being the hopeless romantic Liam is, he’s fine with, but that doesn’t mean he’s not hoping to get some.”

Ruby rolls her eyes and walks away to begin her shift. “Why are men so fucking complicated?”

He laughs at her words and the thought of Liam being so nice this entire week over some lass he’s smitten with. Killan’s happy for Liam, but to be honest, his brother's happiness makes him kind of bummed. Because it's reminding him of how unhappy he is. He’s been unhappy and kind of pissed all week. Ever since last Friday, when that angel never came back.

He was so enchanted by her.

He keeps asking himself why she never returned to him. He’d thought they’d had a connection, he’d thought they’d shared a moment. He’d thought she’d felt the same attraction for him he’d felt for her. Was she just leading him on? Or did she find some other bloke who gave her more attention than he could that night?

He wishes he knew.

Killian suffers through another evening without seeing Emma enter the bar. He keeps eyeing the door, keeps waiting for her to appear and approach him to explain herself, to supply him with some sort of explanation. But she never shows.

The next night is no different. Same agony, different day. But this time, his brother isn't here to poke fun at and distract him from the blonde bombshell weighing on his mind.

The dim lamp light cascades over the living room when Killian trudges through the door after three a.m. Tossing his keys on an end table, he chucks off his jacket and looks down, seeing Liam's boots laying haphazardly on the floor by the door. Which is odd because he's always yelling at Killian for leaving his shoes on the floor instead of storing them in the closet.

Killian shakes off the thought and throws his jacket over a chair before heading to the bathroom. He always needs time to wind down after his shift, but tonight, he just wants to sleep and hopefully forget about Emma for a few goddamn hours. But in order for him to do that, there’s something he must do, first.

He’s been unbearably hard all week from thinking about her. So as soon as he feels the hot water spraying his skin under the shower head, he wraps his hand around his cock and strokes himself, his stiff, wet flesh easily slipping through his fist. He can’t help it, though. Emma had stirred something inside him. Something he’s never felt before.

He knows this is a bad idea, he knows he shouldn’t get this worked up over someone he’s only spoken to once. But at the moment, he’s too hard and his head’s too foggy with lust, his blood running too hot when he remembers how she’d smiled at him, how she’d bitten her bottom lip, remembers her soft curves and how fantastic her ass looked in those tight jeans and how that sexy, pink lace had clung to her breasts. He groans, needing so desperately to ease the tension before he goes completely mad.

Pressing his free hand against the shower wall as the hot stream cascades down his back, he pumps himself harder and faster, grunting as he imagines her pretty lips on his mouth... on his chest... on his stomach... wrapped around his cock. Imagines her humming around him and growing wet from tasting him in her mouth. Imagines what her soft, silky tongue would feel like on him. Imagaines how good her pussy would feel around his cock. Imagines her on top of him, naked and writhing, her skin shimmering in the moonlight as she rode his dick.

He can almost hear her moans and short pants in his ear as he imagines taking her breasts in his hands, squeezing firmly while he fucked her good and hard until she was screaming out his name, her walls squeezing him tight as she came all over his cock.

His body goes rigid, a rough, drawn-out groan rippling through his throat as Emma's name tumbles from his lips. Seconds later, his hand and stomach are a hot, sticky mess as his hand stills around his pulsing length. His heart is pounding and his breath is ragged as he watches the aftermath of what he’d done disappear into the drain.

After he washes the night away from his body (and feels the urge to touch himself again when he lathers his balls and softened cock with soap) he rinses off and steps out of the shower without giving in to more temptation. He dries off with a towel, pulls on a pair of boxers and heads to bed, feeling no shame for what he'd done in the shower. For jerking off to visions of Emma, who’s almost a complete stranger to him. He knows he should feel some kind of guilt or remorse, but right now he can’t find it within himself to feel sorry. He needed that.

And maybe now, he’ll be able to stop thinking about her long enough to get some shut-eye.

But it doesn’t bloody work.

He tosses and turns, still unable to rid her from his mind, and he’s not even sure why. Well, actually he is. She was gorgeous and sexy and playful, and he’d wanted to get to know her. He’d wanted to know everything about her. But apparently, she hadn’t wanted the same from him.

He’d waited over an hour for her at the bar the night he met her, and would've waited longer if not for Tina approaching him and chatting his ears off. He'd wanted to either ignore her or tell her he wasn't interested, but he didn't want to be a jackass. And when Emma never showed, he thought about taking Tina up on her offer and bringing her home in an attempt to forget about Emma. To forget about her smile or her eyes or the memorizing light surrounding her or the way she winked at him as she walked away from the bar.

But he knew it wouldn’t be fair to Tina to be with her while thinking of another woman. He may be a dashing rapscallion, but he's still a gentleman.

He’d seen Emma with Mary Margaret and Ruby, and he was half tempted to cash in a favor from Ruby and have her obtain Emma's number, and maybe he should've. But Emma obviously made her choice and he's afraid she would be creeped out by his advances. So he never did.

Just as Killian is drifting off to sleep, something yanks him awake, but it's not thoughts of her. Rather it's…

Thump.

Moaning.

Thump.

Cursing.

Thump.

Grunting.

Thump.

What the actual fuck?

Liam knew Killian had a late shift tonight and yet he decided this was the night to get some action from the mysterious woman he's been seeing?

Killian even asked Liam about her, but he completely denied it.

“Not seeing anyone, my arse,” Killian grumbles, but even though the walls are paper-thin, he's pretty sure he can't be heard over the sounds.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh God, yes!”

Bloody hell.

The walls are so thin, he can hear every pant, every moan, he can hear it every goddamn time the headboard slams against the wall.

“Fuck!”

Why now? Why wait until four in the fucking morning? Or have they been at it all night?

Killian groans and grabs his headphones from his nightstand. He slips them on and plays some music, turning up the volume. He closes his eyes, trying to erase everything from his mind, but he can actually feel the wall rattling and he’s surprised the bed doesn’t come crashing through the drywall.

He curses and grabs the pillow next to him, covering his face with it. He wants to pound on the wall and tell them to shut the fuck up, but he knows he deserves it. He's done the same thing, he's brought a lass to his bed while Liam was in his room, forced to listen to every sound.

Besides, part of him wants to high-five Liam for pleasuring this woman so well and at such a late hour. He wonders how many hours they've been at it.

He's kind of proud of Liam, actually. He just hopes this one doesn't cheat on Liam like the last girlfriend did.

“Bloody… fucking... hell!” Liam groans loudly.

With one final hard thud, the noises cease.

Finally.

Killian removes the pillow from his face and is soon able to get some sleep, but only for a few hours before he's awake again.

Unable to fall back asleep, he wipes the sleep from his eyes and drags himself out of bed.

Coffee.

He's not sure if the smell wafting through the apartment is due to lack of sleep or if Liam got up and made a pot. Which would surprise him, considering all the amorous activities he engaged in last night. Killian would think he’d be exhausted after that.

As he nears the kitchen, he can hear pots and pans clanking around, so he knows he's not imagining the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the flat.

When he enters the kitchen, his eyes are immediately drawn to the coffee pot on the bar counter, and it almost appears to be glowing. “Thanks for making coffee,” he says appreciatively, opening the cupboard door to grab a mug. Though he's not sure he should be very appreciative, considering Liam's to blame for Killian's lack of sleep.

He and the little vixen he had in his bed last night.

“I barely got four hours of sleep, thanks to all the banging and screaming coming from your—” His words are frozen in midair when he turns around and sees the nearly bare ass sticking out from the refrigerator door.

That's definitely not Liam.

His girlfriend, rather.

And she’s dressed in nothing but a pair of pink laced panties and one of Liam’s oversized dress shirts.

Killian smirks and fills his cup before turning around and leaning against the counter, admiring the view while he sips his coffee. There's a half-naked blonde pillaging his refrigerator, but right now he couldn't give a fuck.

He’s too busy appreciating the view, because bloody hell, she has a dee-lectable ass.

Liam did good.

It’s a good thing she’s already been claimed by his brother because otherwise, she’d be in big trouble. Or, rather, not a good thing. It’s quite a shame, actually.

“What was that, babe?” The sweetest voice pulls Killian from his thoughts as she rises, carrying eggs and milk in her hands. She sets the items on the counter next to the refrigerator and turns around.

He lifts his gaze from her pretty ass, and when his eyes meet hers... his jaw drops to the fucking floor, his face paling. He almost drops his coffee mug.

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

He has to blink a few times to make sure it’s actually her. But maybe, just maybe, he’s still sleeping, and this is all just a terrible dream.

“Killian?”

Nope. He’s wide awake.

And the woman standing in his kitchen, wearing nothing but panties and a shirt that falls just past her butt is real. And just like that, Killian’s hopes of being with this woman shatter into a million pieces.

“Emma?”

There’s a shocked expression plastered on her face, but he doubts she’s more surprised than he is right now. He had never suspected the woman making all those noises in his brother’s room to possibly be the same woman he met in the bar last week. The same woman who’s been on the forefront of his mind ever since. The same woman he’d jerked off to thoughts of only a few hours ago.

“You two know each other?” Liam’s voice sounds through the kitchen when he enters and glances between them, seeing the recognition flickering in their eyes. He walks across the kitchen and pulls a half-naked Emma into his arms, pressing her body against his. He hadn’t even bothered to throw on any clothes either and is only in his boxers.

“We met at the bar last week,” Emma answers, because apparently Killian lost his ability to speak. His brain is too occupied with the fact that Liam and Emma are together, their hands all over each other as she’s semi-straddling his thigh.

Well, fuck.

He just doesn't understand how this happened. How had his charm not worked on Emma like it had worked on so many women before her? And he was actually genuine with her. He wasn’t charming her just so he could get into her pants. He actually wanted to get to know her. Besides, even if he ended up taking her back to his flat, he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to have just one night with her.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, the same night you and I met. He made me a Baby Yodarita.”

“A Baby Yodarita?” Liam parrots, amusement obvious in his tone.

“Yeah, I made it up based on Baby Yoda, but Killian was happy to accept the challenge.”

Liam chuckles and takes her chin in his hand, bringing her lips to his. “Of course he did. He’ll do anything for tips.”

Killian balls his hand into a fist. He didn’t make her that special drink to get a tip from her. He didn’t even charge her for the damn drink.

He wants to strangle his brother for saying that and for having his paws all over Emma, but he’s still trying to process what she’d said about meeting him the same night she met Liam. When had she met him? They weren’t there at the same time, so how did they meet? It must have been outside the bar.

Wait a bloody minute.

Killian’s eyes widen when something occurs to him. Was Liam the reason Emma never came back to him that night?

Emma’s eyes dart between them when something occurs to her too. “So, this is your brother?” she asks Liam. “You said you lived with him.”

“Aye. And I’m sorry if he startled you. I thought he’d still be sleeping.”

“It’s fine,” she assures, waving off his apology.

Wait a damn minute. Liam’s sorry she was startled? Killian was the one kept up by all the noises coming from Liam’s room.

“And what, I don’t get an apology for being kept awake by all the noises? You do realize I can hear everything through the paper-thin walls, right?”

Liam and Emma exchange blushing smiles, but neither of them seems apologetic. “Sorry, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other last night,” Liam comments, brushing his nose against hers. She smirks, displaying her total agreement as she caresses his cheek.

Killian staves off a groan of disapproval. “I gathered that,” he says casually, trying not to sound completely gutted.

“So you two must’ve met while I went on that wild goose chase David sent me on,” Liam guesses, thankfully changing the subject.

“Wild goose chase?” Killian inquires, furrowing his brows in confusion.

“Aye, it’s a funny story, actually.” Liam chuckles, his eyes glued to Emma as she smiles at him. He finally tears his gaze from her to look at Killian as he wraps his big hands around her little waist. “So before I left to run those errands I told you about, I received a text from David asking me to look after his little sister who was bar-hopping with his wife. So I get there and she’s nowhere to be found. Well, when I returned, I ran into this stunning angel just outside the bar,” he says, squeezing her hip and pulling her closer. “Well, I quickly find out, she’s David’s sister.”

“Oh,” Killian utters, still shocked by this entire set of circumstances. It made him forget little details, like the fact that Mary Margaret is her sister-in-law and therefore David is her brother.

“Anyway, she missed her Uber, and after we started talking, I offered her a ride home,” he looks at her again, with googly eyes and a blushing smile as she gazes at him with the same love-struck expression on her face, “and the rest was history.”

“Wait, so that’s why you left the bar that night? To spy on Emma?” Killian glances at her, a little pissed she’d put up with Liam stalking her. “And you weren’t pissed at him for that?”

“A little, at first,” she admits shyly, “but more so at my brother for asking him to spy on me in the first place. Besides, look at this face,” she says, cupping Liam’s chin in her hand as she smiles at him. “How could I possibly be mad at a face like this?” He grins and leans in, capturing her lips with his.

Killian wants to ask her exactly when she left the bar, but he’s afraid of what the answer would be. He stares at Liam, wondering why he never mentioned her. “So, why did you tell me you weren’t seeing anyone when I asked you about it?” Okay, and part of him is hoping to get him in trouble with her.

But instead of looking pissed, guilt flashes in her eyes. Like she had something to do with it.

Liam eyes his brother apologetically. “We didn’t want to tell anyone about us yet. David’s my good mate and we don’t know exactly how he’ll take the news when he finds out about us. He’s very protective of Emma, if you couldn’t already tell. So we haven’t told anyone.”

Killian scoffs. “Since when haven’t you been able to tell me anything without worrying I wouldn’t keep your secret?”

“I know, I know. I should’ve just told you. I shouldn’t have lied.” He gazes at Emma again, a little more serious now as he caresses her cheek. “But I could tell right away Emma was something special, and I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize my chance to be with her.” Emma blushes and smiles as he rests his forehead against hers. “ Very special,” he emphasizes, brushing his thumb over her button lip.

She presses a palm against his chest. “I could tell you were, too,” she says sweetly, as though they’re having an intimate conversation. As though Killian’s not even in the room, inwardly dying inside. If only Liam knew what this was doing to his brother.

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” Killian assures them, trying to disguise how unnerved he is that she picked Liam over him.

Liam pulls his head back suddenly, as though he just realized something. “Wait, you mean to tell me you saw Killian first that night?” he asks her.

“Yeah… why?” she asks dubiously.

A slow smile crawls over his lips as he looks at Killian. “Because, I think this is the first time someone has actually seen my little brother first and ended up with me, instead of the other way around.”

Emma cocks a brow, intrigued by this. “Really?”

Killian doesn’t even bother to correct Liam for calling him little brother. He’s too busy seeing red.

“Aye. Most women prefer the bad boy type over the nice guy,” he says with a smile. “But not you. If I didn't know you were a keeper then, I sure as hell do now.” He presses the pad of his thumb against her chin and kisses her forehead.

Killian thinks he’s going to be sick as he watches them.

This is all wrong.

It was supposed to be him taking Emma home. It was supposed to be him bringing her pleasure over and over again until both of them were sweaty and exhausted and yet still couldn't keep their hands off each other. It was supposed to be him standing in the kitchen, wrapping his arms around her half-naked body and kissing her shamelessly as his brother watched.

It wasn’t supposed to be the other way around.

Killian can’t get over the irony of it all. The irony of him jerking off and fantasizing about the same goddamn woman Liam was having sex with right down the hall.

It makes him wonder how many times Liam's been in this exact position. How many times had he laid his eyes on a lass, only to come home and find her in his brother’s arms? How many times had Liam touched himself with thoughts of a woman in his head before finding out she was messing around with his brother?

He’s not sure; all he knows is karma's a bitch.

“I should probably start breakfast before the milk and eggs get spoiled,” Emma says when she notices the items are still on the counter.

“I told you I would make breakfast,” Liam says as she saunters over to crack open the egg carton.

She smirks at him over her shoulder. “You already gave me a hot breakfast in bed.”

Liam quirks a brow. “When would I have done that? You were in my arms until you got up to use the bathroom.”

Killian takes a sip of his coffee, grimacing as he tries to block out their conversation. They’ve only been together for a week and already act like a fucking married couple.

“True, but before that, you gave me some delicious sausage.”

Killian chokes on his coffee and spits it out. Do they not realize he’s still in the room?”

“What the bloody hell, Killian?” Liam upbraids as he inspects Emma to make sure none of the coffee spilled on her.

But Killian only got it on himself. He curtly slams the coffee mug on the counter and walks across the kitchen with clenched teeth, ripping a piece of paper towel from the roll to wipe off the coffee he spit out.

“Sorry,” Emma says after realizing she probably shouldn’t have made the sausage remark with Liam’s brother in the room.

You think?

“Why are you sorry? I’m not,” Liam murmurs against her ear and grabs her hips from behind as she tries to crack some eggs into a bowl. “You can taste my sausage anytime.”

She looks over at him and smirks. “Hmmm, I like the idea of that. But right now, it’s my turn to make you breakfast.”

Liam growls and spins her around, picking her up like she weighs nothing, and placing her on the counter. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, gently biting her there, his words muffled against her skin as his hands slide up her thighs and under the hem of the shirt she’s wearing. “I can think of something else I’d rather eat.”

That’s it.

Killian’s going to vomit. He tosses the paper towel into the trash and storms out of the kitchen, his face probably green from how ill he’s feeling right now.

How the bloody hell did this happen?

“Killian.”

The sound of his name coming from her lips causes his jaw to clench. She and Liam seemed so lovesick, Killian’s surprised they were able to tear themselves away from each other for two bloody seconds.

When he spins around to face her, Emma’s holding his mug in her hands, her eyes flickering with apology. “You forgot this,” she says, offering it to him.

“Thanks but I can’t stomach anything at the moment,” he grumbles, sounding angrier than he had intended.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, probably so Liam can't hear her. “I didn’t know he was your brother.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s not like you and I were ever together,” he says bitterly as his eyes drop to the mug she’s holding. “On second thought, I’ll take that.” He grabs the coffee from Emma’s hands and gulps it down, since it’s no longer hot. Emma doesn’t speak as she stares at him, probably unsure of what to say.

Killian lowers the mug and gives her a hard look before turning around and heading to the bathroom, deciding he needs another shower. After what he’d done in the shower while thinking of Emma and then after what he’d witnessed and heard in the kitchen, he feels filthy all over, almost as if he’s covered in slimy worms. He has to scrub himself down since he can’t scrub away the images that will now be permanently burned in his brain.

The images of Liam and the girl Killian wants but knows he can never have.

Fuck… my… life.

Tagging people who have shown interest. Let me know if you would like to be added or if I missed you. @itsfabianadocarmo @resident-of-storybrooke @snowbellewells @onceuponaprincessworld @viajandosinalas @teamhook @captainswan-shipper88 @jamif @katielovesstarcrossedlovers @uhthreeyuh @lfh1226-linda @babyyouremyqueen @sthonour @julesep3026 @fairytalewhispersinmyheart @andiirivera @wefoundloveunderthelight @wickedsw4n @eleveneitherway @eherron14 @ouatpost @transparentclodsludgeweasel

#cs ff #captain swan #jewelled swan #my fic #through the rising tide

33 notes · View notes

neuxue · 6 years ago

Text

Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 37

Two words: Natrin’s Barrow

Chapter 37: A Force of Light

That sounds almost positive, so it probably isn’t.

Oh it’s a Min POV! I’ve been wanting one of these.

I like the way the POV is shifting in this book so far, bouncing off of Rand to other characters briefly, then coming back to him on the way to another character, touching sometimes on his own thoughts and sometimes on those around him. It’s a change from the previous few books, and adds to the sense that we’re drawing closer to an ending; everything is being pulled tightly around him as he stands at the centre of this storm.

The previous few books, we’ve seen more of things falling apart, divisions growing, unity failing, the right hand falters and the left hand strays – reinforced by the way POV sections were grouped by character, so you’d see one character and one storyline for a few chapters, and then either not at all or maybe only once or twice before the next book. The stories were separate, the characters were separate, and the impacts of the Dragon Reborn and the impending Last Battle and everything that goes with it were being flung across the world. Now, there’s a sense of pulling that back in, and so it becomes tighter, faster, and yet at the same time slightly more chaotic and frantic.

And Rand stands at the centre, but he still has relatively few viewpoint chapters of his own; often, now, he is narrated by one of those near him. Because while he is the point around which everything turns, he inhabits a slightly different level – partly out of his own doing, deciding that the Dragon Reborn cannot be truly human, giving himself to his role and duty and leaving nothing for himself, writing out his own agency in a way; and partly out of the role he is given.

Anyway, let’s get to the actual chapter, shall we?

These opening paragraphs, with Min watching Rand dress in meticulous detail, sharp and tense and exact, remind me a great deal of two other scenes. The first is Rand preparing to go to Caemlyn to face Rahvin at the end of TFoH, where he thought about how he needed to be cold, with no mistakes, and Aviendha watched him. The second is Min watching Rand prepare to go to Illian to face Sammael. There’s a trend here, is all I’m saying.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

Rand did not turn from the mirror. “About what?”

“The Seanchan.”

“There will be no peace,” he said, straightening his coat collar. “I have failed.” His tone was emotionless, yet somehow taut.

“It’s all right to be frustrated, Rand.”

“Frustration is pointless,” he said. “Anger is pointless.”

Tuon left that meeting and immediately declared herself Empress and war on the Tower (like my zeugma there?). Now, I think, we’re seeing Rand’s version of that. Two leaders walk away from a ruined attempt at peace and set their held plans in motion, cold and clear and ruthless.

The air shimmered above Rand, and a mountain appeared there. Viewings were so common around Rand that Min usually forced herself to ignore them unless they were new – though she did spend time some days trying to pick them all out and sort through them. This one was new, and it caught her attention. The towering mountain was blasted out on one side, making a jagged hole down the slope. Dragonmount?

Finally someone says it. Dragonmount’s been hanging over Rand for…well, technically his whole life I suppose, but in the last few chapters those hints have been getting heavier than either duty or a mountain.

It was cloaked in dark shadows, as if shaded by clouds

Or by metaphor.

That was odd; whenever she’d seen the mountain, it had reached higher than the clouds themselves.

With your self-taught philosophy, Min, I trust you can work this one out without too much difficulty.

Dragonmount in shadows. It would be important to Rand in the future. Was that a tiny prick of light shining from the heavens down onto the point of the mountain?

A memory of light, even?

He will stand on his grave and weep, laughter and tears, death and rebirth, memory and shadow and light…

Lews Therin killed himself in a blaze of light on what would become Dragonmount, and it would be fitting, would it not, for Rand to at last choose life in the very place his past self chose death? A fitting way to answer the question he has been struggling with since learning who he was: does sharing Lews Therin’s soul mean sharing Lews Therin’s fate?

My question is how. How does he get to that point? What would drive him to Dragonmount, and what would compel him to such a choice, as far past the edge as he is? It seems so perfect, so fitting; I can’t see what else all of this could be leading to, but nor can I see how we get there.

She’d begun to think of herself as a last defense for Rand.

Ah, Min. And she has been – her bond with him and her love for him have been among his very few anchor points for so long. But he is absolutely his own worst enemy right now – the external threats pale in comparison and they’re not insignificant – but it’s hard to defend anyone against that level of commitment to self-immolation.

Min had discovered just how useful she was as a ‘line of defense’. She’d been about as useful as a child! In fact, she’d been a hindrance, a tool for Semirhage to use against him.

Yeah, I knew she must have her own reasons for not pushing to accompany Rand to the meeting with Tuon. And of course it’s not quite the same reason Rand assumed. But why can he not feel this through the bond – her frustration with herself, her growing sense of helplessness? Or if he can feel it, why does he not think about it?

(Yes those questions are mostly rhetorical).

So she studied and tried to stay out of his way. He’d changed on that day, as if something bright had turned off inside of him. A lamp flickering out, its oil gone, leaving only the casing. He looked at her differently, now. When those eyes of his studied her, did they see only a liability?

It’s not a lack or a diminishing of love, but it is a…distancing…between them. Yet another anchor Rand is slowly losing, because now there is this thread of uncertainty and fear and doubt and misunderstanding between them, even if each reads a different reason or cause into it. And the fact that this is happening even with Min, who has been closer to him than anyone for a very long time, is indicative of just how far gone he is.

“You’re going after her, aren’t you?” Min found herself asking. “Graendal.”

So she’s not the only one getting a sense of déjà vu from this scene.

“Fix the problems you can, don’t fret over the ones you cannot. It was something Tam once told me.”

Okay, Rand, that’s good advice and all, but I’m fairly certain Tam al’Thor did not intend it to apply to this particular situation.

“Don’t think you can leave me behind!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said flatly.

Maybe Nynaeve can dream of it on his behalf.

Too soon?

Once, he would have done everything in his power to persuade her not to. But now, the possibility of her death is something he has…accepted, in the cold way he accepts anything and everything he must do or sacrifice. It would be just another wound to carry until he can die.

From the night stand he picked up the statuette of a man holding aloft a globe. He turned the ter’angreal in his hand, inspecting it, then looked up at Min, as if in challenge. She said nothing.

He does not challenge her decision to accompany him, so she does not challenge his decision to bring the nuke along. (Great).

It all adds to this very well-executed sense that something is very, very wrong here. He’s so different, eerily so at times, and so the characters around him are caught in this…dance, almost, of trying to figure out how to get him to respond, trying to either unsettle or provoke him or get any sort of reaction from him at all besides this terrifying calm.

He glanced at the pair of Maidens guarding the door. “I go to battle,” he said to them. “Bring no more than twenty.”

However misguided his earlier attempts were to keep them from the fighting, this is more frightening by far, because it’s not him. It doesn’t come from a place of finally understanding and accepting their choices; it comes simply because he’s stopped caring – or at least, stopped acting on his caring – about any of the things he once did. He is a different person, and all can sense it, and it comes across so exquisitely in the narrative, and it’s both beautiful and terrible, and filled with this sense of foreboding, of calamity on the horizon.

He had rushed off like this to fight Forsaken before

And that’s always worked out so well. He wins, but there’s always such a high cost to pay. Rahvin, maybe, was the one where the scales tipped the most in his favour, but even that had its price.

He seemed like a thunderstorm, contained and wrapped up, somehow bound and channelled towards a single goal. How she wished he’d just explode and lose his temper, the way he used to! He’d exasperated her then, but he’d never frightened her. Not as he did now, with those icy eyes she couldn’t read, that aura of danger.

More than most, she sees the depth of the changes in him. It’s an excellent description, and she’s not wrong to be afraid, though it’s heartbreaking to see that she is.

One of the interesting things here is the comment about his temper. Because in the early-to-middle books, he and others thought about how that was a change in him; how he’d never shown much of a temper before. And he didn’t, until TDR/TSR. But now, this lack of a temper, this complete failure to explode even when pushed to what should be a breaking point, doesn’t feel even remotely like the gentle shepherd he once was. It’s not a return to or a remembrance of that. Instead it’s a warped, twisted reflection of it, the way so much about him now is. There are echoes of the person we first met, and yet they’ve been distorted, given these harsh edges, taken too far and reached from the wrong direction.

Since the incident with Semirhage, he spoke of doing ‘whatever he had to’ regardless of cost, and she knew that he must seethe at having failed to convince the Seanchan to ally with him. What would that combination of failure and determination lead him to do?

YOU AND ME BOTH, MIN.

I’ve been wondering that pretty much since The Last That Could Be Done, because that was the crossing of his personal threshold, but you don’t have a character become unfettered in their own minds without then giving some…outward indication of that. Rand is cold and terrifying and not at all like himself, but he hasn’t yet crossed that line externally. And I think so much of the tension from his last several chapters has been a result of that sense of waiting for him to do exactly that. It seems an inevitability, and because there are no limits it’s just a question of when – because it could be any time. It could be anything. So the reader and the other characters alike are walking on eggshells here, because he’s already at that point, he doesn’t need to be pushed, he just needs to decide something is necessary…

And we’re heading for Graendal’s hiding place. Bets on this ending well? Anyone?

Speaking of ending well…there are those arguments that crop up periodically in this genre that anything not ‘gritty’ or grimdark or ‘anyone can die’ is boring because you know it’s going to end with good triumphing over evil and minimal major deaths. And I think this serves as a good illustration of how that’s not at all true. I am 99% sure this series will end with a victory for the Light, that Rand will remember laughter and tears before the end and will rise from this low point, that most if not all of the main cast will make it out alive. But that doesn’t make the story less compelling, or this current darkness of Rand’s arc less tense or frightening. It just shifts the focus. The question is not who will win and who will die (to paraphrase a certain proponent of the other side of this argument), but how they will win, and what the cost will be, and how far they will go and what that will do and how they will find a way back and a way forward and what that future will look like, with ‘the battle done, but the world not done with battle’.

This chapter – Rand’s whole arc this book – is filled with a sense of foreboding, a sense of the true darkest hour, and the almost certain knowledge that he will somehow come through this doesn’t make that tension any less. I’m still waiting to see him do something catastrophic, and throughout the books leading up to this I was watching him break slowly, and it wasn’t a question of whether he would survive, or even whether he would fall to darkness, but of what he would do in order to endure. It becomes not an exploration of simply life or death, of failure or success, but of the difference between hardness and strength, of the balance of desperation and hope, of identity and duty and power, of the limits of endurance.

And I don’t think that’s boring. Because it’s not about how it ends, really. It’s about how the story gets there, about watching these characters walk these paths, wondering what it will do to them, wondering how they will reach their destinations and how much of themselves they will leave behind, or perhaps discover.

Don’t get me wrong: I also enjoy stories that do have the potential to end in true darkness, or in failure or death, and where those are the main uncertainties. But sitting here, reading as Rand prepares in calm cold apathy to eliminate one of his enemies and holds the power in his hand to destroy the world, sure this can’t possibly go well, I don’t feel like that sense of dread and anticipation and excitement is in any way lessened by the probability that eventually, he will come through this.

Once that would have made him smile. She kept forgetting that he didn’t do that anymore.

It’s so casually phrased that it’s funny until the meaning hits and it’s not funny at all.

Instead of smiling Rand decides to give us all a lecture on the history of Natrin’s Barrow. I suppose having a lifetime of memories from three thousand years ago, but nothing between then and now, would give some people an interest in history. And send others running for the hills.

“Tell me this: How do I outthink an enemy I know is smarter than I am?”

With a long-range sniper and very good aim.

The actual answer to this is to not try to outthink them, because you won’t. Don’t try to outplay a master of the game but don’t refuse the invitation; take the first steps as expected and then ignore the rules completely, and in the most erratic or unpredictable – and preferably final – way possible. Move your pawn and then flip the table over and start shooting. Don’t engage in the game of wits and strategies. Go for simple, and for overkill, as far outside the rules as you can. It helps not to care about consequences or collateral damage.

As for why Rand is asking this of Ramshalan, idiot and worst fashion disaster since Tylin had control of Mat’s wardrobe, I have no idea.

“I…My Lord, if your foe is that clever, then perhaps your best course of action is to request the aid of someone more clever?”

Rand turned to him. “An excellent suggestion, Ramshalan. Perhaps I’ve already done just that.”

He’s mostly mocking Ramshalan without Ramshalan noticing, because that’s a fun cruel game, but there’s a possible double meaning here because…Lews Therin. He has the memories of a man who by all accounts was a great strategist.

“I’d make an alliance, my Lord,” Ramshalan said without pausing for another second. “Anyone that powerful would make a better friend than foe, I’d say.”

Yeah that worked out so well for Sammael. It’s not a bad idea in theory, but only if you’re certain you would hold the upper hand in that ‘alliance’; in a problem such as the one Rand has posed, where your enemy is the cleverer strategist, this would fall squarely into the category of playing their game, allowing them to determine the rules, and then having to try to outthink them where they are at their best.

And now Rand’s just sending him off through a gateway, presumably to Natrin’s Barrow, as his ‘emissary’…this feels quite a lot like moving that first pawn. So what does flipping the table over look like?

What was Rand’s game?

Sha’rah, technically.

“Go in my name and seek those who rule the keep. See if they are willing to support me, or if they even know about me. Offer them rewards for allegiance; since you have proven yourself clever, I will let you determine the terms.”

This is also clever, because by leaving a lot of the specifics of whatever encounter takes place up to Ramshalan, he adds another layer of uncertainty and thus unpredictability.

Min found herself feeling sorry for the man.

Yeah, life’s hard on pawns sometimes.

“Graendal understands people better than anyone. Twisted she may be, but she is crafty, and should not be underestimated. Torhs Margin made that mistake, I recall, and you know his fate.”

Min frowned. “Who?” she asked, looking at Nynaeve. The Aes Sedai shrugged.

Insert ‘margins of history’ pun here.

It’s odd that neither Min nor Nynaeve seems to pick up on what’s happening here, though. They both know about Lews Therin, and by extension about Rand having knowledge that does not come solely from this lifetime.

“You’ve obviously already decided what you intend to do. Why ask me?”

“Because what I am about to do should frighten me,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

Oh.

I…okay, yeah, wow, give me a second here because there’s a lot in that.

We’re there, aren’t we? At the last line I’ve been waiting for him to cross; he’s crossed his own last threshold, so now we need to see what that actually means. It’s one thing to see it in his mindset, in what he says, even in walking away from a peace accord. But all of that feels like the build-up to something. And now this…seems like it. Whatever it is that he’s about to do.

Which brings us to the other part of this: he knows it should frighten him. He’s so cold, so calm, so apparently unfeeling, and yet even through all of that he knows that whatever it is he is walking so calmly towards should frighten him. But it doesn’t. And that’s the truly chilling part.

He knows on some level that the fact that it doesn’t frighten him is wrong. Which means he can tell, on some level, that what he’s about to do is worthy of that fear. He just can’t let himself feel it, but that he even knows that, that he voices it and it clearly worries him even through that layer of ice, the fact that he even says this, as if he’s reaching out to two of the last people he trusts and begging them to stop him, conveys a staggering sense of magnitude here, in scale or in horror or simply in how far across that line it is. And so there’s this sense that some part of him – a part he can no longer acknowledge but that same place from whence came the quiet warning “He named you friend. Do not abandon him…” – is screaming. But without any way to be heard.

It’s a hell of a line.

But neither of them says anything to him because what can you say to that? He’s reaching out so desperately for help he could never accept, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop him at this point. And so whatever small part of him is still truly him has to just…watch.

I feel like there’s some small element of symbolism to the fact that he steps through a literal gateway – across a threshold, if you will – right after he says this.

The mountain air was more chilly than the breeze had indicated.

Colder than the wind, hmm?

Atop a ridge of its own, high above the water, was an impressive white stone structure. Rectangular and tall, it was built in the form of several towers stacked atop one another, each one slightly thinner than the one beneath. That gave the palace an elegant shape – fortified, yet palatial. “it’s beautiful,” she said breathlessly.

Nice palace you have there. Would be a shame if something happened to it.

The palace was distant, but not so distant that Min couldn’t make out the figures of men walking the battlements on guard, halberds at their shoulders, breastplates reflecting the late sunlight. A late party of hunters rode through the gates, a fine buck deer lashed to the pack horse, and a group of workers chopped at a fallen tree nearby, perhaps for firewood. A pair of serving women in white carried poles, bucket at each end, up from the lake, and lights were winking on in windows the length of the structure. It was a living, working estate bundled up in a single massive building.

Thanks for the census there. How many civilians, precisely? And do tell me, what colour shirts are these numerous people wearing? Because it’s sounding a hell of a lot like red.

And now Rand’s stroking the statue again (there’s no clean way to say that; believe me, I tried).

I have a very, very bad feeling that I know what’s about to happen here.

Not sure what Ramshalan’s purpose is, though. Rand seems sure Graendal will get the whole conversation they had from him, which implies he wants her to – which means she’ll know about Rand asking how to beat someone cleverer than you are, which means she’ll know Rand is looking for a way to defeat her, which would put her on guard…or maybe make her think she has the upper hand? Seems like a risk regardless, but perhaps she’d have found out anyway, and this way Rand can control to some extent the delivery…

“You make it sound as if you can’t win,” Nynaeve said, frowning. […]

“We can’t win, you say?” Rand asked. “Is that what we’re trying to do? Win?”

Ah, Rand. Wise of you not to try to beat her at her own game, but the mindset behind this is…troubling.

Nynaeve raised an eyebrow. “Do you not answer questions anymore?”

Did he ever?

Rand just does that new staring trick of his and Nynaeve is thrown by it and every time he does it it’s still kind of chilling. Especially when it works on people like Nynaeve, who have never truly feared him before.

They waited quietly on the mountain ridge as the distant sun made its way toward the horizon. Shadows lengthened

And so the pathetic fallacy continues. I honestly love this. The Dragon is one with the land, after all…

More lights had been lit in the fortress windows. How many people did Graendal have in there? Scores, if not hundreds.

Why does this sound so much like a pre-emptive tally of collateral damage?

Oh hey Ramshalan’s back.

Oh.

“Is he infected?” Rand asked of Nynaeve.

“By what?” she asked.

“Graendal’s touch.”

He was literally just a canary in a coal mine, wasn’t he? To make sure Graendal is actually there. While Rand still stands at a distance. On a ridge. Looking down at the mansion. Full of collateral damage people.

It was growing dark

Yeah no kidding.

And yet this chapter is called A Force of Light. I’m…Concerned.

Besides the dim evening light, the only illumination came from the still-open gateway behind them. It shone with lamplight, an inviting portal back to warmth, away from this place of shadow and coldness.

There is no light ahead, only vanishing sunset and darkness. The only light and warmth is behind, back across that gateway, that threshold. Light only if you look back, but none ahead, not this way, not on this path…

“Rand,” she said, touching his arm. “Let’s go back.”

“I have something I must do,” he said, not looking at her.

Something that should frighten him. Something that does not allow him to look back, towards light and warmth, but only ahead, towards growing darkness and lengthening shadows and cold and a fortress full of people and his enemy. Oh, Rand, no.

His face was clasped in shadow, but as he turned toward her, his eyes reflected the light from the open gateway.

Shadow ahead, consuming him, but as he turns towards her, towards Min, towards one of his last anchors even though she’s not enough to hold him back now, there’s a remnant of light there. But that’s all it is. A reflection, a remnant, a memory if you’ll pardon my extreme overuse of that particular pun.

The sun set; Rand was now just a silhouette. The fortress was only a black profile with lanterns lining the holes in its walls. Rand stepped up to the lip of the ridge, removing the access key from his pocket. It started to glow just faintly, a red light coming from its very heart.

As ominous and frightening as this is, it’s also an absolutely lovely image. Everything in silhouette, Rand merely a shape, an outline, a space in the world rather than a person. A role that must be filled, a silhouette that shows no human features, no identifying marks. Just a shape, a darkness against the setting sun. A fortress that, too, is no more than a shape, an outline, a representation rather than a reality.

And then just this glowing light of power. Outlines and representations and roles, and power, and all else fades. It’s terrible but it’s so, so lovely.

He’s going to destroy it isn’t he?

“Neither of you were there when Callandor failed me,” he said into the night. […] “Cadsuane told me that the second failure came from a flaw in Callandor itself. It cannot be controlled by a lone man, you see. It only works if he’s in a box. Callandor is a carefully enticing leash, intended to make me surrender willingly.”

Okay why are we talking about Callandor now? No doubt because he’s holding the access key, but still. Does it have to be a willing surrender? And Rand, it’s need not be a box, or a leash. Willing surrender has its place; trust has its place. But he cannot do either anymore, and after the Domination Band is it any wonder he would see Callandor as simply a more elaborate trap?

The access key’s globe burst alight with a more brilliant colour, seeming crystalline. The light within was scarlet, the core brilliant and bright.

Light – strong, brilliant, bright light – but terrifying. Light against the shadow and darkness of night, but there is no sense of warmth or comfort to this.

“I see a different answer to my problems,” Rand said. Voice still almost a whisper. “Both times Callandor failed me, I was being reckless with my emotion. I allowed temper to drive me. I can’t kill in anger, Min. I have to keep that anger inside; I must channel it as I channel the One Power. Each death must be deliberate. Intentional.”

Once, you tried to use Callandor for life rather than death…but of course the solution is to be colder, to be harder, to turn inwards rather than to surrender and rely on trust, or to care about the outcomes.

This whole passage is chilling in that quietly escalating way horrifying things are. The way the light from the access key keeps growing as Rand speaks, the way we’re given this alternation between descriptions of it and Rand’s calm, emotionless words against that escalation of building power and brilliant light and yet nothing but cold…it’s so well done, and the sense of anticipation and dread is excellent.

Min couldn’t speak. Couldn’t phrase her fears, couldn’t find the words to make him stop.

There are no words to make him stop, Min, and that’s what makes it both so terrifying and so heartbreaking. Even he couldn’t find a way to make himself stop; he knew this should frighten him. But it doesn’t, and if they cannot stop him, none can. Nothing can. There are no limits, no restraints, and this is what that means.

His eyes remained in the darkness, somehow, despite the liquid light he held before him.

That says it all, really, doesn’t it? Despite the brilliant light he holds, despite all this power, his eyes are in darkness, because that’s all he can see before him now.

That light hurled shadows away from his figure, as if he was the point of a silent explosion.

The only light is from the gateway behind him and he cannot look back; the only light is from the immense power he holds but he cannot let himself feel, and so all is in darkness though he is the champion of Light, holding light and wreathed by light, yet all he sees is darkness, and all the light does is throw more shadows. A brilliant light, but the shadows it casts from him…a force of light, and yet who stands to gain? A champion of the Light, and yet with this cold, unfeeling, unfettered power, which side does he truly serve?

And Min and Nynaeve are just watching, because what else can they do? What can anyone do?

When he’d been so close to killing her with his own hand, she hadn’t feared him. But then, she’d known that it wasn’t Rand hurting her, but Semirhage. But this Rand – hand aflame, eyes so intent yet so dispassionate – terrified her.

Oh Min. She has stood by him through so much and never turned away, never flinched, never feared him. No matter what he did, or what people thought he had done, or what so many feared him capable of. Always she stood by him in love, and if she was afraid it was for him, never of him. Now even she fears him. And still nothing is said of the bond between them, of what she feels through it or perhaps what he does.

“I’ve done it before,” she whispered. “I once said that I didn’t kill women, but it was a lie. I murdered a woman long before I faced Semirhage. Her name was Liah. I killed her in Shadar Logoth. I struck her down, and I called it mercy.”

It was mercy. A painless death, ‘gone before her agony began’ as I think it was phrased, or the torment of Mashadar? There’s no question.

He turned to the fortress below.

No.

Oh, no.

“Forgive me,” he said, but it didn’t seem directed at Min, “for calling this mercy as well.”

...

That sound you might have heard was me literally, quite literally, gasping out loud.

It is, perhaps, the most perfect line that could have been written there—

Something impossibly bright formed in the air before him

—because this is unforgivable; this is not mercy; he knows it, and does not expect the forgiveness he asks for. Just as he knew this should frighten him but it did not. There is nothing for him now, nothing to hold him back, and there will be no forgiveness but he believed that the moment he reached for the True Power, the moment he killed Semirhage, the moment he stepped across that line. He asks forgiveness here the same way Lews Therin cried for Ilyena’s forgiveness: with the assumption – no, the certainty – that it could never be granted, that there will be no absolution.

The air itself seemed to warp, as if pulling away from Rand in fear.

The world afraid of him. The land is one with the Dragon and yet now even the wind pulls back from him, turns away from him, fears him.

Min could no longer make out Rand, only a blazing, brilliant force of light.

Before, he was a silhouette. Just a shape in the darkness, to be filled in. Now…similar, and yet opposite. Not a person, still, but a shape made of light. The Light’s champion, the Dragon Reborn, a being of sheer power and light rather than flesh and humanity.

Light, but terrifying, because there is no humanity to it, nothing of Rand in that shape of power, nothing to contain it and direct it. Unfeeling light, that could burn anything it touches, with no sense of meaning. Rand is gone, subsumed by this force, by the outline of what he must be, by all he has let go of himself, to feed this force of light until it is as destructive as any darkness could ever be.

This is light unfettered, and it’s terrifying. He has gone too far; he is too far gone, and this is what it looks like when that is unleashed.

In that moment, she felt as if she could understand what the One Power was. It was there, before her, made incarnate in the man Rand al’Thor.

Except there’s nothing of Rand to it; he has emptied himself of that, to become little more than a vessel for this power and for the duty and role he must take on, because that is the only way he could find.

It’s still beautiful, though. Despite what he is undoubtedly about to do, despite what this power is building towards, despite all its destructive potential.

And then, with a sound like a sigh, he released it.

Ahhhhhhh this is perfect.

All this power, this blazing force, this sense of something bursting to light, of power that can barely be contained…and then this breath of softness. With a sound like a sigh. The contrast of force and gentleness, of furious power and a soft sigh, so much destructive potential and energy and very likely death, released so gently, so quietly. Easily, almost. So light, for such a weight. This is absolutely gorgeous.

Just a sigh. Just a breath. That moment of almost quiet, of gentleness and softness and simplicity before…well. It’s almost long enough to forget where this is leading, almost enough, with the paragraph before it of pure light and power and Power, to make this only a moment of beauty. Except.

A column of pure whiteness exploded from him and burned across the silent night sky

And here is the violence. There’s the gathering of power, the potential, then that sigh of gentle release…and then it all hits. It’s like that effect you sometimes see in movies where everything is slowed, everything is quiet, and then just at – or sometimes just after – the moment of impact, sound returns and everything is jolted back to its ordinary speed and that brief moment of soft waiting out of time is lost.

The stones came alight, as if they were breathing in the force of the energy. The entire fortress glowed, transforming into living light, an amazing, spectacular palace of unadulterated energy. It was beautiful.

It is beautiful; this whole scene has been beautiful, but. It’s balefire. It has to be; he knows now that nothing else can absolutely kill the Forsaken beyond the possibility of resurrection.

So.

It was beautiful.

And then it was gone.

Yeah. That.

He just.

This is the thing I’ve been waiting for. The point where he crosses that last line, not just for himself but for all to see.

Well, those few remaining who matter, anyway. Those who have – had? – not yet turned away from him.

Burned from the landscape—and the Pattern—as if it had never been there. The entire fortress, hundreds of feet of stone and everyone who had lived in it.

Yeah.

It’s such an exquisitely done scene, the quiet but inexorable approach, the ‘forgive me for calling this mercy as well’ and then the sense of simplicity and silence, and yet immense gathering power, and then that single quiet moment of release, the whole thing beautiful and lit only by the fading light of the sunset and then the brilliant light of destruction, silence and beauty and power. And then devastation, but even in that, silence. Nothing remains; there is no visible destruction, no visible harm, nothing to draw feeling or pain. There’s just…nothingness. Emptiness. Void. (The Dragon is one with the land…)

Something hit Min, something like a shocking wave in the air. It wasn’t a physical blast, and it didn’t make her stumble, but it twisted her insides about. The forest around them—still lit by the glowing access key in Rand’s hands—seemed to warp and shake. It was as if the world itself were groaning in agony.

And this is where reality returns, where that silence and softness and beauty is broken, where the true force of the devastation hits. Because there is damage; there is pain. The world itself has been shaken here, the Pattern torn. There’s no visible damage, but beneath that, reality itself is being pulled apart. It’s not a quiet, beautiful, consequences-free display of power. It’s not mercy.

So this scene echoes something of his own state of mind, gives us an outward expression of just how far he has gone, of what he is doing not just to himself but to the world he is meant to save. That’s what this is here for. This is the cost, of what has been done to him and of what he has done to himself as a result. This is where we stand now.

This is a lot.

And one of the things that’s so well done about it is this sense of…not numbness, quite, but of delayed impact. Of understanding without feeling, of observing what is happening as it happens, yet in such a way that the description doesn’t quite allow for horror until afterwards, and even then…all of it is softened; it’s presented clearly, and there’s no blurring of details, but that sense of quiet and gentleness and beauty, the focus on the power itself rather than on its effect until later, the way we just get ‘It was beautiful. And then it was gone.’ with none of the signs that would ordinarily be associated with violence or death or destruction; just beauty and then nothingness…it conveys, wonderfully, the state of mind in which this was done. The emptiness, the sense almost of surreality even as what is happening is all too real. And then it’s done, it’s gone…and then we get the horror, as the impact hits Min and the world shakes and the full truth of this strikes home.

It’s not the immediate shocking ‘no’ or ‘it is HIM’ of The Last that Could Be Done. It’s a different kind of horror, a different kind of realisation, a different kind of impact. And yet they are inextricably linked; that is what led us here. (That, and everything that came before it).

“What have you done?” Nynaeve whispered.

Yeah.

It’s…yeah. A Force of Light indeed.

And again, the pacing here is excellent, in the way that we’re given such a long, almost gentle scene of the buildup and the actual releasing of the power…and it’s not until the moment that it strikes that everything snaps back into place, and we’re brought back to something like normal speed as the impact hits, and now we’re back to reality, after that long dilated moment that seemed to hang suspended. And so now all the realisation is happening, all the reactions you’d expect, and that comes through to the reader as well, with this sense of ‘wait this actually just happened’.

Rand didn’t reply. Min could see his face again, now that the enormous column of balefire had vanished, leaving behind only the glowing access key. He was in ecstasy, mouth agape, and he held the access key aloft before himself as if in victory. Or in reverence.

Only now, now that we’ve had the chance to take in a little more of what has just happened, now that we’ve felt that resulting impact and taken a second to understand the enormity and the truth of it, now we get to see Rand through a slightly different lens, see what this actually looks like, and see not the soft, silhouetted emptiness or power or bright pure light, but the horror behind it. This image isn’t beautiful or gentle; it’s jarring and terrible. He’s just destroyed a city, burned it out of existence, but all we see is ecstasy, a man almost consumed by this power that just moments ago seemed beautiful.

Or in reverence. If that had come earlier, when he was just a figure of light and power, before all of it was unleashed, when it was still a force of light and frightening in its way but beautiful, that line would read very differently. Yet instead it’s here, where the sheer wrongness of it comes through, where it feels jarring and warped and ominous.

Then he gritted his teeth, eyes opening wide, lips parted as if he were under great pressure. The light flashed once, then immediately vanished. All became dark.

The light vanishes immediately now, after…that. And once more we’re in complete darkness, which again feels like a revealing of the truth.

Had he really done what she thought he had? Had he burned away an entire fortress with balefire?

Yes. Yeah. He did that.

Yeah.

And again, it’s paced so that only now do we get the stark statement of it, as part of this growing horror of realisation.

All those people. […] They were gone. Burned from the Pattern. Killed. Dead forever. […] So many lives, ended in an instant. Dead. Destroyed. By Rand.

Now it’s all short, fragmented sentences, or even single words, as reality has hit and she’s trying to encompass it, trying to put it to words but it hardly even goes.

It’s not as if Rand hasn’t caused death and destruction before. But in a world where rebirth is a guaranteed part of life – and when the continuation of that cycle is a large part of what he’s supposed to be fighting for in the first place – this is different, because he’s taking even that away.

And it’s also just the way approached this. This wasn’t desperate self-preservation, or a battle, or a war. This wasn’t even losing control of his power and killing his own people as a result. This was planned, calmly and coldly; he stood on a ridge and looked down at this palace and wiped them from existence without a sound, without a fight, without warning or care.

I suppose whether or not that makes it worse than what he’s done before depends on whether you consider intent or only outcome in your morality, but it is undeniably a different situation.

Strategically, it was clever. How do you beat someone who is smarter than you are? Refuse to play the game, and then destroy it completely. Send in a pawn, then stand on a ridge and wipe the gameboard from existence. It’s a good solution.

It’s just also…well. That.

A light appeared from Nynaeve, and Min turned, seeing the Aes Sedai illuminated by a warm, soft glow of a globe above her head.

It’s fitting, that she is the source of light here. A gentle, soft light, so unlike the power Rand just unleashed. A guiding light, a beacon of sorts if only he could follow it.

“I do what must be done,” he said, speaking now from the shadows.

Speaking now from the shadows indeed. I see what you did there.

And now he just wants her to see if the Compulsion is still present in Ramshalan’s mind, because still he’s the canary here.

“I hate what you just did, Rand,” Nynaeve snarled. “No. ‘Hate’ isn’t strong enough. I loathe what you’ve done. What has happened to you?”

Nynaeve, who has always seen him as Rand al’Thor before the Dragon Reborn, who has never truly stopped seeing him as the boy from her village, even as she has recognised the changes in him. Who reached out to try to heal him, after he faced Rahvin and told her he wasn’t sure how human the Dragon Reborn could afford to be. Who linked with him to cleanse saidin, and who never hesitated to scold him when she thought he needed it. But now she’s seeing him differently, because this is so much different from any of what she’s seen before. This is too far; this is across that last line.

Before, he was irredeemable mainly in his own eyes. Now…

(‘Dream on my behalf, Nynaeve’)

“Before condemning me, let us first determine if my sins have achieved anything beyond my own damnation.”

Wow okay that’s a line.

Ends before means. But he knows, without any doubt, that he has damned himself. He cannot see any possibility for redemption, is certain he will not be forgiven, knows this is an act to condemn. He just…sees it as an inevitability, and thus as something to simply accept and let go. He is damned; so be it. What more does it matter? And so it’s all about the results now; the methods no longer matter because what more could be done to him, that he has not done to himself already?

Only it’s not just about him, it’s about the entire world; he could end existence and carry all of them into this damnation he has already accepted for himself as a guarantee.

Okay the Compulsion is gone but I’m not quite as sure as Rand is that Graendal is dead. The evidence would point that way, but we didn’t see her die and there’s no corpse and in this genre, that spells ‘suspicious’.

Min felt at her neck, where the bruises of Rand’s hand on her neck hadn’t yet faded.

Yikes.

Min, too, looks at him differently now. This has made her do that, when nothing else he has done ever has. This is where he crosses the line.

And has he? I live for this sort of thing, for watching as characters are dragged to moral event horizons and made to do cartwheels on them, so I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying this, awful as it is. But I’m also fascinated by where those lines are drawn and how they can be manipulated and how characters can be pushed across or pulled back from them, and at what point a character truly tips into irredeemability. I think it’s different for every reader, and depends on all kinds of other factors, but that’s part of what makes it interesting.

So where is Rand, with respect to that line? We watch this scene through Min’s eyes, as even her view of him is forced to change. We see Nynaeve struggle to express how much she hates what he’s just done. And so as a reader it puts us in the position of wondering much the same thing – how far is too far? Is this too far? Can he come back from this and if so, how?

“How do you fight someone smarter than yourself?” Rand whispered. “The answer is simple. You make her think that you are sitting down across the table from her, ready to play her game. Then you punch her in the face as hard as you can.”

Well. I can’t really argue with that, as it’s very close to the way I answered that question earlier. And he’s not wrong, strategically speaking.

It’s just that the reason it’s a good strategy is because it’s so far beyond what anyone would even fear to expect. Because it’s so far across that line. Especially with no threat, no warning. Just zero to balefire in a few seconds, because it’s the only way to completely annihilate the game and opponent.

(I’m probably not the only one thinking of certain…decisive actions taken near the end of the second World War here.)

And then he just turns and walks back though the gateway, calm and without looking back. It’s done; time to move on.

“What you have done is an abomination, Rand al’Thor,” Nynaeve said as soon as the gateway was closed.

But all he does is justify it. Calmly. Last time they spoke, her words reached him on some level and he told her to dream on his behalf and there was just a hint of Rand still there. He dismissed her concerns, but he also agreed with them, and there was that moment of…not vulnerability, or even emotion, but a sort of wistful echo of both, a handing over of the hope he could no longer let himself hold.

Now, though, it’s just flat justification. And it’s different as well because this isn’t Nynaeve telling him that he’s destroying himself. This is Nynaeve being forced to consider that he’s destroying other people, destroying the world perhaps. It is an abomination; this isn’t about concern for him anymore. It’s now about facing someone who has done something monstrous, and she can’t get through to him.

He knows it’s an abomination. He just doesn’t…think that matters anymore.

Which is horrifying.

As Nynaeve is realising, I think.

Though it’s telling that she even tries to confront him, rather than simply walking away. That’s not her way. This is abhorrent on every level, and she doesn’t know what to do with that, but still it’s not in her nature to just give up. But it’s…different from when she just wanted him to stop hurting, wanted to help him, or wanted to protect him.

“I did them a favour.”

“A favour?” Nynaeve asked. “Rand, you used balefire! They were burned out of existence!”

“As I said,” Rand replied softly. “A favour. Sometimes, I wish the same blessing for myself. Good night, Nynaeve.”

Um.

Second of all, that…sounds perhaps like Moridin, which is a whole lot even on its own, but first of all…um.

I just…

I don’t even think I can summon a ‘this is fine’ because this is so far away from fine it’s in another dimension entirely and ‘as I said, a favour’ and he does hate what he’s done, hates it and hates himself enough that he wants to be wiped from existence and thinks he deserves it, but…it’s not enough to stop him. Because what’s the point?

A favour. A mercy.

It’s…he is coming very close, with this, to a ‘wouldn’t it be kinder, more merciful, to just end it all?’ sort of moment. Which is rarely the province of heroes, but that’s where Rand has been driven. He wants to die, and he no longer lets himself care about costs, and he believes he is damned and that there is nothing he can bring to the world but more destruction, and even a fragile peace is doomed to fall apart at his death anyway so what does it matter; he wants to die and he shares a link with a man who seems to want existence itself to be destroyed, and how far is he from looking at that and calling it mercy? It’s so much easier to burn everything with cleansing (bale)fire, to put an end to pain, than to find a way forward, a way to rebuild. To break the cycle rather than embrace it. It’s easier to end the suffering by an ending, rather than by continuing. There are no beginnings or endings to the Wheel of Time, after all, so providing an ending…

It would be a victory for the Shadow, but how far is Rand from seeing it as a…force of Light?

Until that moment, [Min] hadn’t realised just how drained she was. Being around Rand lately did that to her.

Oh Min. I feel like it would be laughable at this point to point out that that’s not exactly the sign of a healthy relationship, but she doesn’t even consider abandoning him. Still, their relationship is more…strained, now. She still loves him, and he her, I think, but it’s…harder, now, than it once was.

“I wish Moiraine were here,” Nynaeve muttered softly, then froze, as if surprised to have heard herself say that.

Pretty much speaks for itself. It’s a nice way to close that arc that began almost at the start of EotW. I hope Nynaeve and Moiraine have a chance for a reunion, to truly bring closure there, but there’s so much growth and understanding in just that simple statement.

“What if he’s right?” Nynaeve asked. “Woolheaded fool though he is, what if he really does have to be like this to win? The old Rand could never have destroyed an entire fortress full of people to kill one of the Forsaken.”

“Of course he couldn’t have,” Min said. “He still cared about killing then! Nynaeve, all those lives…”

“And how many people would still be alive now if he’d been this ruthless from the start?” Nynaeve asked, looking away.

That seems…huh. I was about to say that seems very much out of character for Nynaeve, the one who almost always chooses compassion over pragmatism. But I wonder if that’s kind of the point; it’s out of character for her because he has absolutely no idea how to confront what just happened, how to process it or make sense of it.

And so maybe because she’s trying to look at it through something more like Moiraine’s pragmatism, or maybe just because she’s…lost, and grasping at anything at all, trying to put all this horror into some kind of coherent picture, trying to find a way to…not quite deny it, but make it make sense. I don’t know how much she truly believes any of what she’s saying here.

“Can we dare send a man to fight the Dark One who won’t sacrifice for what needs to be done?”

Min shook her head. “Dare we send him as he is, with that look in his eyes? Nynaeve, he’s stopped caring. Nothing matters to him anymore but defeating the Dark One.”

“Isn’t that what we want him to do?”

(Isn’t that what we’ve asked him to do? Isn’t that what the world itself has demanded he do?) There’s an element almost of realisation in that question, of the enormity of the task he has been set. Of the fact that he is doing all this because of what they – the world entire – want and need him to do.

“Winning won’t be winning at all if Rand becomes something as bad as the Forsaken…We—”

“I understand,” Nynaeve said suddenly. “Light burn me, but I do, and you’re right. I just don’t like the answers those conclusions are giving me.”

Yeah, that feels like Nynaeve. She agrees with Min, and knows she does, but that’s a harder truth to face.

And apparently it comes with Cadsuane attached. First Moiraine, now Cadsuane…Nynaeve’s making all kinds of strides today.

“I dislike the woman, and I suspect she returns the emotion, but neither of us can handle Rand alone.”

I’m so proud of you, Nynaeve.

“Handle” Rand? That was another problem. Nynaeve and Cadsuane were both so concerned with handling that they failed to see that it might be best to help him instead. Nynaeve cared for Rand, but she saw him as a problem to be fixed, rather than a man in need.

I’m actually not sure I completely agree with Min here. I think the focus on handling rather than helping him is true of many, and probably more so of Cadsuane than of Nynaeve, but even Cadsuane I think does want to help him, for himself as well as for the world. She’s more or less said as much. Still, I’ll grant it with her; she’s tried too hard to manipulate rather than simply aid, and it has cost her.

Nynaeve, though…yes, she’s spoken sometimes of handling him, or of trying ot get him to do what she thinks he should, but it’s always seemed more like a holdover from when she was his babysitter, and now something of what she has become as an Aes Sedai. That’s just who Nynaeve is, to some extent. And the rest of their relationship really has been about her trying to do what she can to help him. She followed him and the others from Emond’s Field to try to protect them. She captured a Forsaken and went to Caemlyn in a dream just to have a chance of helping him in some way when she knew he could be in trouble, and at the end asked ‘at least let me heal you.’ She linked with him to help him cleanse saidin and has stayed by him since to try to help as she can and to protect him from what she sees as threats, and has tried at every possible opportunity to heal him (“how can it be enough, when you’re still bleeding?”). And then recently, in that conversation they had…she just wanted to get him to stop doing this to himself, because it’s destroying him. So yes, she’ll stand up to him and contradict him and push him. But she’s there, in the end, to try to help him however she can.

He’s just at a point, now, where he isn’t letting himself accept the help she or Min or anyone else can give.

Nynaeve stepped up to the front and knocked on the sturdy oak door; it was answered shortly by Merise. “Yes, child?” the Green asked, as if intentionally trying to goad Nynaeve.

“I have to speak with Cadsuane,” Nynaeve growled.

“Cadsuane Sedai, she has no business with you right now,” Merise said, moving to close the cottage door. “Return tomorrow, and perhaps she will see you.”

“Rand al’Thor just burned an entire palace full of people from existence with balefire,” Nynaeve said, loud enough to be heard by those inside the cottage. “I was with him.”

I have to laugh; I do love these kinds of moments, where one character just drops a truth like a bomb on everyone around them. That’s definitely news that will get you in to see Cadsuane at midnight.

And so Cadsuane and Sorilea and the others get the story, because this is not a time for withholding information or pettiness of any sort.

Oh, Rand, Min thought. This must be tearing you apart inside. But she could feel him through the bond; his emotions seemed very cold.

Mention of the bond, finally. And…there’s effectively nothing there. I think Min is right to some extent; it probably is tearing him apart inside, but he’s shut all of that off so completely that he can’t actually feel it, and so it’s just another necessity, just another reason to hate himself and reaffirm his belief that he deserves annihilation. There’s no more that can be done to him, so it’s just another thing.

“You were wise to come to us with this, child,” Sorilea said to Nynaeve. “You may withdraw.”

Nynaeve’s eyes opened wide with anger. “But—”

“Sorilea,” Cadsuane said calmly, cutting Nynaeve off. “This child could be of use to our plans. She is still close to the al’Thor boy; he trusted her enough to take her with him this evening.”

Okay, so maybe there is still plenty of space for pettiness. Not that Sorilea or Cadsuane would see it as such, but this is not a time for dismissing Nynaeve, or keeping things from her. They may not see her as Aes Sedai or as anything more than a child, but this is not a time to try to simply use her.

Though perhaps they’re giving her a chance:

“But can she be obedient?”

“Well?” Cadsuane asked of Nynaeve. They all seemed to be ignoring Min. “Can you?”

Nynaeve’s eyes were still wide with anger. […] Nynaeve tugged on her braid with a white-knuckled grip. “Yes, Cadsuane Sedai,” she said through clenched teeth. “I can.”

For this, she can. For this, she can swallow her pride and agree to obey even Cadsuane. That’s how important this is. It’s not about her pride or her assertion of authority or any kind of rivalry she has with Cadsuane for any reason. This is about what may be a last chance.

Come on, Cadsuane, the least you could do is reward her with the whole plan. But she won’t, and Nynaeve accepts even that. And for Cadsuane’s part…it doesn’t seem like she’s giving much, but Cadsuane is not a woman accustomed to making compromises. But there’s an element of grudging respect between them now; Cadsuane is testing her, but from her that means she’s giving Nynaeve a chance to prove herself, rather than dismissing her entirely. It is, in its own way, a kind of trust.

“Your part,” Cadsuane continued, “is to find Perrin Aybara.”

…What?

Why Perrin?

Does she intend to find Mat as well? Could this be anything at all to do with Verin’s letter to him? Trying to bring all three ta’veren together for some reason? It has to happen eventually, but how would that help with Rand’s whole…uh…inability to be a person right now?

Or maybe it’s about Perrin’s whole group? People from the Two Rivers, maybe? People from Rand’s home, to try to make him remember—oh. Tam is with Perrin. Or was, last we saw Perrin. Could that be part of it? His friend, his old village, his father…hmm.

Whatever the plan, someone would need to watch out for Rand. His deed this day would be destroying him inside, no matter what he proclaimed.

Destroying him, as he just destroyed. Tearing him apart, as he just tore at the fabric of reality. Fisher King indeed.

There were plenty of others worrying about what he would do at the Last Battle. It was her job to get him to that Last Battle alive and sane, with his soul in one piece.

Somehow.

No easy task. But she has not turned away from it, nor from him. She still wants to help him, still wants to look out for him and help him, still worries more about what he’s doing to himself than anything else. And she may be the last, or one of the last, who can look at him that way. He needs that, as he has needed that for so long, but if he can’t accept even that anymore, if it’s not enough to pull him back from this edge, not enough to keep him from doing what he’s done, what will be?

Next (TGS ch 38) Previous (TGS ch 36)

#um. that was a lot.#this one got...a bit long #Wheel of Time #neuxue liveblogs WoT #The Gathering Storm

66 notes · View notes

synthsizedproductions · 4 years ago

Text

Wildcard Wednesday #7: Unseen Adaptations Chapter One

Hey hey, guys, gals, and in between pals! We’ve gotten to our 7th Wildcard Wednesday! This week I bring you the first chapter of a story I was writing for National Novel Writing Month. This is a follow-up post to the Introduction of Unseen Adaptations and Wildcard Wednesday #3 and I would advise you to check it out before reading this chapter. This is a post-apocalyptic, coming-of-age story of two boys going through the Rite of Adaptation.

These chapters may not have specific names, content warnings, or pictures until I am focusing on this storyline, so viewer discretion is advised.

My apologies for this going up late, I thought I had scheduled it.

Hope you enjoy the show! ~ Chance

I glanced past the entrance to the narrow alley I had hidden in to avoid my father’s Warders. I had been in my temporary safe haven for nearly ten minutes and still I thought my heart was going to beat out of my chest while I waited to see if they would pass again. I leaned my head on the wall and caught my breath before slipping out of my hiding place and into a passing crowd. Not that I blended in well in my mismatched excuse of street clothes. I worked with what I could find around the manor, but the quality of cloth alone made me stand out among the common folk in their shabby clothes.

I split from the group when we reached the crowded entrance to the market square, pulling my hood down to avoid being recognized by a passing guard. It was a bit warm for the cloak, but nothing else was going to hide my distinctive features. Black hair wasn’t uncommon among the Shifters, but I had never met another person with a midnight blue shimmer like mine. Even when others tried to mimic my appearance, their shifting could never get the same effect.

I stared at the map posted on the wall outside the bustling square, trying to make out where I was with little success. I had turned down help from several strangers and interacted with passersby as little as possible. My father had people in his employ all over the city and I could never be certain who was a friendly commoner and who was a plainclothes Warder. It was better to be lost and look like a moron than face the wrath my father would rain down on me if he found out I was at the market.

I decided to test my luck and wandered through the boisterous crowd with no clue where I was going. I moved with the flow of the crowd, a twig in a steadily moving river of bodies. The sights, sounds, and smells overwhelmed me, the world blurring as the crowd continued to push me along. I made a few attempts to escape the throngs of people with limited success. I finally stumbled my way out of the crowd and sat on a public bench so my head could stop spinning. I expected this to be overwhelming, but the scope was beyond anything I experienced at even the most well-attended societal parties.

“You look kinda outta place, friend.” A boy my age wearing dusty clothes and scuffed boots approached me with a grin that spelled trouble. His deep orange hair was a mess, though it looked purposefully styled that way.

“What makes you say that? And I’m not your friend.” I nervously tugged on the hem of my hood.

The disheveled boy looked me up and down, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Sure thing, pal. I say that because you look like you dove into a Traveller’s clothes basket and walked out with whatever fool costume pieces that stayed on. Dunno what look you were going for, but you should reconsider your life choices. Who’re you hiding from wearing a getup like that?”

I stood and crossed my arms, taking note of any escape routes and finding limited options. “I’m not your pal and I’m not hiding. I just have a terrible fashion sense.”

He stared at me for a beat before bursting into laughter. “Hoo boy, bud. I don’t know who you’re trying to fool, but I can’t just let you walk about looking like you got mauled by a stage play. C’mon, I can find you some good replacements.” He extended a hand and grinned at me.

I took a step away from him with clenched fists. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to trust a stranger to lead me through an unfamiliar place. And I am not your bud.”

He took a step toward me. “Fine. I’m Vax, he/him.”

“Anak, he/him as well.” I glanced at his hand. “If you think this changes your stranger status, you’re mistaken.”

He huffed and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Fine. Be that way. I was gonna help you get out of this rodak’s nest, but you can rot in here for all I care.” He turned toward the crowd.

I grabbed his arm tightly. “No. Wait.”

Vax looked at me in a confused way. “You move fast, comrad. Ow, ow! Loosen the grip, man.”

I squeezed harder. “My name is Anak and that is what you will call me.” I released him from my grasp and took a few calming breaths.

Vax rubbed his arm with a scowl. “Okay, okay. I hear you. I was just trying to joke around. Lighten up.” He looked at the reddened handprint around his upper arm. “C’mon. There is a good place not far from here.”

Vax led me into the grouping of stalls filled with quickly moving people and shouting vendors. I tried to catch sight of the wares we were passing, but I was barely keeping up with Vax as it was. I dodged hurried shoppers and whipped around the corner I saw Vax turn. I ran into the solidly built teenager and stumbled to keep from falling into anyone else.

“Hey! You kept up! I wasn’t sure you would. Market’s a little busier than usual. Probably all those tourists who think they’ve got what it takes to get through that Rite thing.” He sneered at some of the passing visitors.

I glared at the back of his head. “They aren’t tourists. I doubt anyone goes through the Rite of Adaptation for the fun of it.” I tried to keep my offense hidden, but I knew my tone gave me away.

He grinned over his shoulder at me. “You sound like a tourist.” He laughed when I scowled at him. “Relax, Anak. I’m just kidding. You really do need to grow a sense of humor.” He began down the lane we had turned onto and I followed him despite my growing annoyance with my new companion.

I walked next to him in the less crowded lane. “I have a sense of humor. I just don’t find it funny to make light of something as serious as becoming an Adapted. Especially with the monster sieges.”

Vax rolled his eyes at me. “Monster sieges. I think they’re blown outta proportion. There just aren’t that many people reporting them anymore. Not down here among us common folk.” I didn’t like the knowing glint in his eye, but he stopped short in front of a clothing and accessory vendor. “Ah, here we go. This is the place.”

I walked around the stall with a baffled frown. None of the patterns seemed to match what I was used to seeing beyond the Gate. The vendors who came up to my family’s level wore bright colors and garish patterns. “Is there anything more interesting to wear?”

Vax tugged me away from the now annoyed shopkeeper with a nervous laugh. “Ignore my friend. He’s new in town.” He yanked me behind a clothing rack. “Are you insane? Don’t insult the product while the seller is right there. What’s wrong with you?”

I felt my face heat and I tugged at the hem of my hood again. “This isn’t what I thought I would find when I came down here. The tents and stalls are so vibrant.”

Vax shook his head. “Of course the stalls are garish. How else are they going to attract customers? Those tents and banners are not cheap and their colors have a lot to do with that. No one down here can afford things like that. You aren’t from around here, are you?”

I looked around nervously but we were fairly isolated in the corner he’d pulled me into. “No, not really. I thought this was more what I would find in the market.” I gestured to my outfit with a sigh.

He shook his head at me and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So, you from beyond the Wall or above the Gate? With this level of mismatching, I’m going to guess above the Gate.”

I gestured with my head toward the market’s exit. “Above the Gate. I wanted to come see what it was like down here. My father doesn’t let me wander around down here.”

Vax shook his head with a laugh. “You Gaters have the weirdest idea of what we wear down here. Tell you what, I’ll pick some clothes, you foot the bill. Sound good? Great.”

I examined my new clothes as I tried to make the unfamiliar garments fit properly. The cloth was far lower quality than I was used to and it was irritating my skin, but I did feel like I fit in better. “How do I look?”

Vax looked me up and down, turning me enough times to leave me dizzy. “Yeah, yeah. Looks good. I gave the shopkeep the coins, so we can head out.” He tugged on my arm.

“Oh, but I wanted to thank the owner for helping us pick things out.” I tried to pull my arm away as he dragged me from the stall.

“Don’t worry about that. Shopkeepers don’t usu-”

“Hey! You gotta pay for that stuff!” Vax forced me to duck as a jar crashed on the ground in front of us, blue smoke billowing out of it. “Get back here!”

I glared at the grinning boy next to me. “What is going on, Vax?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but grabbed me by both arms and spun me away from the fast approaching shopkeeper. “Talk later. Run now.” He yelped when another jar smashed at our feet and blue smoke blocked everything from view.

It burned to keep my eyes open and my lungs were refusing to accept the thick air. I fell to my knees and attempted to shield my face in the hope I could find a way out of the suffocating cloud. The edges of my vision began to darken and my ears were ringing so loud I thought my eardrums might burst. I had all but resigned myself to my fate when I was lifted from the ground. I couldn’t open my eyes enough to see who my rescuer was or where I was being taken. I didn’t care if it meant getting out of the acrid smoke. I could hear distant shouts as we disappeared into the depths of the market.

When I was finally set down again, I coughed so hard I thought I was going to throw up, puffs of blue smoke escaping my lungs in heavy clouds that sank to the ground immediately. I could still taste whatever was in the jars and no amount of spitting was fixing that.

I tried to figure out where I had been taken, but all I could make out was vague box shapes staked on top of each other. I looked up at the blurry person standing next to me, their face covered with a black and red mask. “Thanks for the rescue, my friend.” My voice was scratchy and speaking made my throat burn. My appreciation faded when it was Vax under the mask. “You.”

He smiled sheepishly as he coughed out a blue puff. “Me. Listen, I can explain what, oop!” He lept back when I lunged at him, not that I could aim well through the tears streaming down from my burning eyes. “Hey, hey! I’m trying to explain here!”

I glared in his general direction. “Explain what? That you tricked me into giving you my money and then used me to steal these things?” I gestured to my clothes which had a blue dusting over it.

Vax made sure to stay out of my reach as I took another blind swing. “If you had just left when I said we should, we would have been fine. Yipe!”

I managed to grab one of his ankles when he went to jump back again, dragging him to the ground with me. He kicked my hand to free himself before scurrying behind what I could now see was a stack of crates. I struggled to my feet, panting from the effort just breathing took. “If you had just paid him, we wouldn’t have needed to be fine!”

He gestured for me to quiet down and nervously glanced at the boarded up windows. “Listen, I get that you’re mad, but look at it from my perspective. You got plenty of money. That shopkeep’s got plenty of money. I’m just a poor kid trying to not starve out here. Not that you would understand what that’s like. You probably never went hungry a single day of your life up there behind your Opal Gate. But you need to keep your voice down or the guards will find us.”

I threw one of the stolen shoes at him. “So what? I’ll just explain that you tricked me into being part of this and surely they’ll just let me go when I give the clothes back.”

He caught the shoe and immediately threw it back at me. “Shows how much you know about how life works down here for us common people. You think they’ll care that you weren’t a willing accomplice? You’re wearing the stolen goods. There is no way they’ll believe your story. Not when you’re brought in with me.”

I swatted the shoe away and attempted to get the second one off with far less grace than the first. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you boys are in a lot of trouble.”

I saw Vax’s face go pale as he hid behind the crates despite knowing it would do him no good. I looked over my shoulder at the annoyed guard standing in the doorway. He stepped aside as four other guards stomped their way in, one grabbing me by each arm while the other two had to wrangle Vax.

I struggled against them with no result. “But I didn’t do anything wrong! I can explain everything, I promise.”

The guard shrugged in a bored way. “You can explain when we get to the jail. Not that it will do you any good after the Council’s declaration about zero tolerance while there are so many visitors to the city. Next time, don’t trust a street rat. Take them away.”

The guards pulled me out of the musty storage room. “I’m not a visitor, though! I just came down from the Opal Gate to see what the market was like.”

He shrugged again with a laugh. “Oh, good. Then you can be someone else’s problem.”

#Wildcard #Adapted

0 notes