Work Text:
Spring Comes to Malkier
by misscam
Disclaimer: Not my characters, just my words.
II
The first night in Malkier, they have nothing more than a tent to stay in.
He could have waited for more solid quarters, Lan knows. Hundreds of Malkieri have already started to move into the area, and there will be a contingent of Ogier coming, and even a few Two Rivers folk have insisted on coming to help set up farmland and sheep (urged by Perrin, Lan suspects). There are ruins and walls and towers that will be cleaned, and new buildings will soon dot the landscape. He could have waited. It might even be expected of a king to wait for royal chambers and a royal homecoming. Many would have been happy to ensure one.
And yet… Yet. Malkier lives again. Breathes, grows, lives, lives, lives. How could he wait to come? He feels more a king with a simple tent for home here than in all the years of his life away. This is Malkier. This is his home. Here, here is his land. Here will be his new life.
Every step on the now Blight-free ground is a wonder. Every sight of a lake glittering in the sun is a sight to behold. Every breath of fresh air fills him with awe. Every moment of regarding the seven towers now fills him with hope.
Nynaeve holds his hand as they walk, and he can feel her joy in his joy through the bond, and the fierceness of her love is warmer than the sun above them. Deep down, he can feel the edges of her grief too, buried as deep as she can manage, clearly not wanting to ruin this moment.
He understands. He understands all too well. There have been so many losses, so much pain, so much grief, that even joy and love cannot wash it out completely. They will live with their wounds turned to scars, and the scars will not vanish. But they will live.
They live. Malkier lives. Life. So much life, and he kisses Nynaeve on a field of green by a lake, a bright autumn sun above, the clean air all around them, kisses her until they are both breathless and laughing with the joy of it all.
So much joy. His home. His wife. His life.
His future.
II
“Lan,” Nynaeve whimpers, her lips parted as she arches into him. He can feel her almost frantic impatience through the bond, wanting, wanting, wanting, but he simply keeps up his slow, steady pace of thrusts, his gentle touches and soft kisses. He’s already driven her over the edge twice with fingers and tongue, but even so, she still wants more of him, as passionate as she is stubborn. He loves her for that, for that and a thousand other things. “Lan.”
“My love,” he murmurs, changing the angle slightly to have her gasp. “Nynaeve. My wife. My queen.”
She closes her eyes at that, and he kisses her eyelids, her hairline, her flushed cheeks, her parted lips. She bites down lightly on his lower lip in response, and he finds himself smirking into the kiss, at least until she deepens it and kisses him needily, greedily, frantically.
“Lan”, she groans into his mouth. “Don’t make me command you.”
He chuckles at that, letting himself enjoy a brief moment of wonder and pride at the implication of that. He is king now, king of Malkier, and he supposes that does mean she will have the right to command him in private. She might even choose to get even with him.
He can’t wait.
“Perhaps I will,” he teases, and she raises an eyebrow at him before he changes the angle and thrusts, and her breath catches. “But not tonight.”
He keeps his eyes locked on her, watching her every expression as he chases her pleasure, feeling it mirrored through the bond and pushing him ever closer too. She is so bright, so warm, so alive around him as she tenses and then lets go, and he follows her moments later.
They curl up together after they catch their breath, forehead to forehead and holding each other, neither willing to sleep yet.
There will be other nights to sleep through. This first one in their new home, this one is not one.
II
He spends a whole day making a make-shift stable for Mandarb, his back aching at the end of it, and Nynaeve kisses his palms before healing him of his aches and bruises. She’s spent the day helping cleaning out ruins and moving debris, she tells him, eyes bright, and have also made them both dinner.
It tastes terrible; he eats it with pleasure.
She rests her head in his lap afterwards, letting him massage her temples gently. She’s used a little too much of her power today to help the rebuilding efforts, he can tell, but doesn’t tell her off for it. He understands. She wants this for him so badly, and he loves her for it.
He’ll still keep her in bed most of the coming morning to ensure she’ll recover; he has many plans for how.
II
Two weeks into their stay in Malkier, Logain and several Asha’man arrive. Lan first hears the murmurs among people about the arrival before seeing them himself, and as he approaches the group, they are bowing respectfully to Nynaeve, even if Logain holds himself with a great deal of pride.
“El’Nynaeve ti al’Meara Mandragon,” Logain says. “Al’Lan Mandragoran. Four of my Asha’man will stay in Malkier for a year, if it pleases. They will help with whatever may be required. They have strengths that will be helpful for rebuilding.”
“You owe me nothing, Logain Ablar,” Nynaeve says firmly. He can feel something almost prickly in the bond, an odd mixture of embarrassment and pride. She learned to heal gentling and stilling almost accidentally, she told him, Lan remembers. Another remarkable accomplishment of his wife, and he can’t help the surge of pride he feels.
He can feel Nynaeve soften at it, her eyes brightening slightly.
“Nevertheless , they will stay. If it pleases,” Logain repeats. “There is another matter, Nynaeve Sedai. There are still those among the Asha’man who suffer lingering effects of madness. If…”
“Of course I will help them,” Nynaeve snaps, a touch angrily. Lan finds himself smiling faintly. A man would be brave to question his wife’s desire to heal what she can, but then he supposes Logain was never a coward.
Logain nods after a moment. “We will arrange gateways for the Asha’man who wishes.”
“Not too many at once,” Lan cuts in. He puts a hand on Nynaeve’s shoulder, feeling her glare up at him. “She will require rest in-between.” He sends a strong pulse of love through the bond, wanting her to understand he will not see her pained by headaches from using too much power, will look after her as her warder even as a king.
After a moment, Nynaeve sighs, but still gives him a final glare.
“Of course,” Logain says easily. “Thank you, Nynaeve Sedai. The Black Tower will be a friend to Malkier, you have my word.”
Not an ally he was expecting, Lan will admit. But he’ll take it.
II
That night, Nynaeve holds herself tightly, curled up in blankets, and he simply slides in behind her, holding her.
“I miss Egwene,” she says. Her voice is raw with grief. “She was the one who arranged for Logain to escape after I healed him. Blood and ashes, he owes her as much as he owes me. He should… She should be here to have his gratitude, not me. Light! She…”
She turns to him and cries. He feels her grief like an ocean, pulling in and churning, and it’s all he can do to float with it, holding onto her. Perhaps some of it is his own too, joining with hers. Perhaps he even cries a little with her. He too, cared for Egwene. For Rand. For Bulen. For Nazar. For Deepe. So many dead. So many lost.
He kisses the tears from her cheeks as she quiets, brushing his fingers through her hair. She hiccups softly, her eyes red-rimmed, lovely even now, grieved and sad.
“Honor Egwene with your life, my love,” he tells her firmly. “Honor Rand. Honor them all. They would have wanted that.”
It’s what he would have wanted, he doesn’t say. She knows that, but he doesn’t think she would care for the reminder.
“I love you, al’Lan Mandragoran,” she tells him fiercely, taking his head in her hands. Her kiss is fumbled, more need than precision, almost desperate, and he aches with her pain, his pain, their pain.
“Come,” he tells her softly. He takes her by the hand, leads her away to their bathtub, letting her heat the water before they both slip in. They wash each other, slowly, comfort in water and soap until they are almost scrubbed raw with it.
They make love after, hurried and frantic in the bath as the water cools, and that too, washes away something.
II
He is standing in the restored royal chamber that is almost ready weeks later when he feels the sudden panic through the bond, and he is running before he can even think, sword unsheathed, heart pounding. Even as Nynaeve’s panic becomes something else, something astonished and confused, he keeps running. Nynaeve, Nynaeve, Nynaeve is…
Standing in the middle of an empty field, hugging a man that looks faintly familiar, but Lan can’t think of from where. The emotion from Nynaeve has turned to anger and relief and joy and aggravation, all in a knot, and he can’t make out where one emotion begins and another ends.
“You woolhead,” Nynaeve is saying. “Mule-headed woolhead, why didn’t you tell me!”
“Nynaeve,” the man says softly, with so much affection Lan can only stare. “Nynaeve, your husband is about to run me through with his sword.”
“I should let him,” she grumbles. “Rand, I thought you were dead.”
Rand? Rand, Lan thinks, blinking slowly. Certain events of the night suddenly become clearer in perspective, and Lan slowly sheathes his sword while considering. Min, Elyane and Aviendha must have known. Who else?
The man – Rand - gives a faint, apologetic smile. “In a way, I did, Nynaeve. The Dragon Reborn died, and Rand al’Thor will be at peace for it.”
Nynaeve sniffs again, then nearly crushes Rand in another tight embrace. “Don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you,” she says sternly. “Light! It is good to see you.”
Rand just smiles at that, a familiar smile in a stranger’s face, meeting Lan’s gaze. “It is good to see you both.”
“It is, Rand al’Thor,” Lan tells him sincerely.
II
Lan finds Rand giving apples to Mandarb the next morning, looking pensive as people mill about in morning errands in the area around, none paying him attention. He seems strangely happy about it – though, when Lan considers it, perhaps not strangely. Much of the attention the Dragon Reborn was given was not one he would desire himself, after all.
“I thought I might stay a week or two,” Rand says. He strokes Mandarb’s neck gently, the horse content to let him. “Nynaeve said you had sheep. I thought I might help out a little.”
“You are welcome to,” Lan says. “Sheepherder.”
Rand smiles faintly. “A more desirable title than many others I was given, in the end.”
He looks at peace, Lan notes. A man finally free to live. Well, he can certainly understand that.
“You let her grieve you,” he says after a moment. “She had already lost Egwene. She did much for you, sheepherder, and she cared. You know how much she cares.”
“I know,” Rand says quietly. “I admire her for it. She is also terrible at pretending, my friend. I am sorry. The world needed to believe the Dragon Reborn dead.”
“Once she forgives you, I will too,” Lan says quietly. He can understand the reason, yes, but it still caused his wife grief and pain. “It will take more than one visit to achieve that.”
Rand looks around, eyes bright as he regards the semi-finished buildings, the ruins that are becoming something else, the fields and sheep, the lakes and trees, Mandarb, and finally Lan.
“I have many places I would like to see,” Rand says, voice light and free. “But yes, I will return more than once. I would like to see Malkier rebuilt and its king and queen prosper. I would like that very much.”
II
Rand vanishes in the night two weeks later, leaving just a note wishing them well until next time, and Nynaeve grumbles and pretends she isn’t sad, and he lets her. He also quietly arranges to have a small building built near the sheep, with a guest room that will always be ready, just in case a sheepherder might want to stay for a few weeks.
When he tells Nynaeve of it, she kisses him so fiercely they end up just doing it up against a wall, in too much of a hurry and passion for anything else.
II
One morning, a number of boxes arrive with Seanchan seals and a letter from Mat explaining he just wanted to send them lanterns so they could properly celebrate Bel Tine, but Min insisted on sending some knives and rare herbs (a curious combination, Lan thinks) and then Tuon insisted on sending rare fabrics and metals to make it a proper royal gift as befitting Prince of the Ravens (to which Mat has added ‘bloody’) to give.
Nynaeve stares at it all for about five minutes, muttering about Mat’s choice of bride, before finally allowing the boxes to be opened.
II
It is just before spring when Moiraine and Siuan come to visit.
They both look tired in ways that is hard to put to words. It is something in their eyes. It is as if they have carried a burden for so long that only now, when they’ve put it down, have they felt their fatigue.
They seem happy, at least. They hold hands every now and then, let themselves be looked after by Nynaeve who insists they need better food and better herbs for their headaches, takes long walks by the lakes, sists by fires in silences that seem comfortable, not loaded.
“I am happy for you,” Moiraine tells him when she comes to find him one evening as he feeds Mandarb. “It is what I wanted for you.”
He nods slightly, accepting that, but feeling the familiar barb of pain of how she went about ensuring that. He isn’t sure that will quite ever go away, even if he refuses to hold it as a grudge. Moiraine was too important for him for too long for that. She gave him a purpose, a mission, a pride, and it kept him alive to find something to live for.
“I know,” he simply says, and her smile in response is slightly bittersweet, as if she knows how he feels. Perhaps she does. “I am happy for you too.”
That is true too, after all. Pain aside, he will always wish her happiness and peace.
She smiles then, genuinely, and they walk together in comfortable silence, as they often would in the past. Much has changed, but at least not that.
They find Siuan and Nynaeve sitting close together, Siuan demonstrating a knot and Nynaeve mimicking the motions, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. For a moment, Lan just drinks in the sight of her. His wife. His wife, enjoying learning a mundane skill. Even now, he is still amazed he gets to have this, gets to have her and normality and life.
Nynaeve must feel his amazement through the bond, because she looks up and meets his eyes. Her gaze is warm, and her lips curl into a faint smile.
“We have enough lakes. I should know how to fish,” she says, as ways of explanation. Siuan makes an affirmative noise, very much engrossed in her task.
“Perhaps we should all know,” Lan suggests, sitting down next to Nynaeve. After a moment, Moiraine sits down next to Siuan, and they spend the evening like that, making knots, doing something that will not at all impact the fate of the world or be of any importance.
Lan loves it.
II
The morning before Bel Tine, Lan wakes to find his bed cold, Nynaeve not sleeping next to him. He can feel her nearby, thoughtful, and so he dresses and sets out to find her standing outside, looking towards where the sun will soon rise.
He slips his arms around her, and she leans back against him. For a long while, they just stay like that, content in each other’s presence.
Today they will celebrate Bel Tine, Lan thinks, combining traditions from Two Rivers with Malkier. A union. Their union.
“I am with child,” Nynaeve announces abruptly, voice wobbly. His heart stutters, and she tilts slightly in his embrace in order to look at him. “You’re not surprised.”
“I suspected,” he says. He has woken more than once to her feeling ill in the mornings, after all, and felt it through the bond too. “Nynaeve…”
He can’t find the words for his joy, so he simply kisses her softly, tenderly, lovingly, his hands moving to her stomach and settling there. New life. A new life that will be born from them.
So much life, he thinks, feeling the joy of it. They have lost much, yes, but not all. Malkier lives. Many of their friends live. He lives. Nynaeve lives. A child of theirs will live, and perhaps there will be more. Children. Grandchildren. So much life.
On the horizon, the sun rises; spring has come to Malkier.