Chapter Text
Lan didn't see why Moiraine was so bent out of shape.
“Edeyn was a bad match, certainly. But that doesn't mean every pairing is that way. I see no reason to throw out the whole custom simply because it has flaws.” Brin had a very positive experience. He thought most probably did.
Moiraine set her teacup on the small, rough-hewn table that sat between them and folded her hands neatly in her lap for a long moment, exasperation plain on her face. Plain to him, anyway.
“Lan, dear Light. How old are you?”
“Forty-two.” Now it was his turn for exasperation. She knew his age perfectly well.
She stared at him, light from the crackling fireplace dancing in her eyes.
Forty-two. It struck him like the greeting of a February morning, like a slap across the face.
He supposed he was the age Edeyn had been.
Tipping one eyebrow meaningfully, Moiraine asked, “How old is Brin’s eldest?”
Lan gave her a warning look. “She recently had her thirteenth name day.”
Moiraine hummed meaningfully. “So she might ask you next time we go to the Borderlands.”
Lan flinched on the inside and allowed a stiff twist of his jaw on the outside.
“That's not funny, Moiraine.”
“No,” she agreed gently. “It is upsetting.”
A sharp heat clawed its way up his spine.
“She wouldn't want that,” he contradicted.
Moiraine was trying not to reveal her doubt to him but he could feel the disapproving hush of it between them.
A spike of anger jumped inside him and he resisted the urge to slam his hand on the table.
“As you say,” Moiraine deferred. “You know the child far better than I.”
The child. She had done that on purpose, he thought, to make him feel ashamed.
Forty-two. It hadn't seemed unthinkable for someone that age to want him, back when he was fifteen. But now? Light, that was a child. Only considered old enough to fight when they were hopelessly desperate.
“You disagree,” Lan pointed out. “Why?”
Moiraine shrugged and looked off into the middle distance, past the hearth and the frost-edged windows to somewhere unreachable.
“You seem an easy man to have an infatuation with at that age,” she offered. “You are handsome, strong, protective, brave. She trusts you. You have a tragic past.”
Lan chose to ignore that last part.
“Do you not bring her small gifts each time you visit?” Moiraine asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.
He went tense all over.
“I have not been soliciting her attention, Moiraine.”
“Of course not.” She swatted the notion aside like a fly too near her food. “But if I was a budding young woman and I knew I might be pressured to choose a carneira, you would be a very attractive option. Your transience in the Borderlands makes you a rather safe choice.”
That brought him up short. Perhaps Brin was even encouraging a match, because she trusted him. And socially… Well. It would be good for Brin.
Lan suddenly felt very ill, the room pressing in on him, too tight and loud with Moiraine’s voice and the crackle of the fire and the rattle of the wind against the windows and–
Moiraine’s curiosity was piercing him. She opened her mouth to ask another question.
“That’s enough,” he preempted her, quietly but as firmly as he dared. “Your point is made.”
She blinked and sat up straight, seeming to come out of a reverie.
“I know you would not–”
“Enough, Moiraine.” He stood abruptly, needing to move. Pushing in his chair, he checked himself with practiced movements – blades, coinpurse, waterskin – and moved for the door. The chill seeping through the doorframe might as well be calling to him.
He closed his hand over the handle.
“Keep this locked,” he said, without looking at her, his voice tight. “I’ll knock with Aldieb’s gait when I return.”
And then, without waiting for her reply, he opened the door, and finally, he was outside, breathing fresh, cool air. Surrounded by trees and the quiet rustling of leaves and animals rather than the press of four walls and Moiraine’s sharp eyes.
The moon was full and bright, and there was a well-trampled path cut through the scrubby brush and low, flat leaves that covered the ground. Lan broke into a light jog, letting his legs fall into a numb rhythm, wishing he could properly sprint.
Moiraine was correct, of course; Brin’s girl was a child. It was the word he would have used himself. The word shouldn’t be blooming in his guts like poison.
It was just the thought of her being expected to…
Brin might be encouraging it. After all, had he not just been thinking that Brin’s experience had been positive? She might be in favor of continuing the tradition.
He scrambled up a steep, narrow hill, fingers catching roots, dirt crumbling under the toes of his boots. By the time he reached the peak, his calves and his lungs were finally burning the way he’d been craving.
At the top, he paused, his breath ragged in the air. The trees below were a dark tangle. He couldn’t see the town, but a large creek was visible from here, inky and winding, moving slowly past rocks and fallen trees. Finding its way through, somehow.
She was thirteen, Brin’s daughter. Curious and clever, proud to show him her sword forms each time he visited.
On his last visit, he had brought her a scarf. Arafellin wool, dyed Sheinar blue. She had blushed so deeply he’d thought she might catch fire. And what had Lan done? He had smiled. Told her that it suited her.
He had meant nothing by it, of course. But what if that smile had made her feel special, or chosen, or ready? What if she had remembered that smile for years?
Lan closed his eyes.
It would be easy to pretend that it had been harmless, that he hadn’t known. To reassure himself that she would outgrow it, and that she would almost certainly match with someone else before he saw her next.
Well, it would have been easy, once. Wrong, but easy. There was a time he could have forgotten that she would be matching with some other grown man.
There was a time when he would have smiled kindly at her offer, taken too long to redirect her, allowed her to believe that asking him made her grown.
Perhaps there was a time…
No, surely not. He was recoiling inside at just the notion of…
Bloody ashes, the whole point of the thing was that they were children who didn’t know what to do. Even if he had managed to convince himself that he could accomplish the duty in a nurturing manner, that reality would have crashed down upon him the moment they were alone together.
But he might have tried, out of a misguided respect for the tradition, duty is heavier than a mountain echoing through his head in Bukama’s voice.
Lan flexed his fingers and took a slow breath before the tightness in his chest and the strained buzzing in his head grew so desperate that Moiraine came looking for him.
Any version of himself that would have entertained the wretched custom needed to die in these woods, to be buried so deep under roots and earth and rock it could never be found.
They were not terribly far from Fal Dara, not really. Lan wondered if Moiraine could be persuaded to make a visit before winter fell.
He needed to check in on Brin’s child.