Chapter Text
Nynaeve al'Meara stormed out the Accepted wing, her washwater-coarsened hands already gripping her wrist-thick braid, irritation coursing through her. Right now, she was cursing the extreme lack of easy transport across the Tower into the Yellow Ajah's infirmary. The cold of winter was seeping up from the grey-white tiles on the floor, even through her fur slippers, despite the sunny morning.
The White Tower was the pride of Tar Valon, the imposing home of the Aes Sedai, the Ogier-made throne of the Amyrlin Seat, and the sole foundation for all usage of the Power. It stood at the very centre of the island, its bone-white bulk looming over the city, itself white as eggshells. Most people got used to it. Most. The only thing larger than the Tower was Dragonmount, clouds halfway up its peak like a diaphanous scarf. Everyone ignored that one. No one wanted to draw the Dark One's eye, or speak of the Dragon, the man who Broke the World, and many treated the mountain as if it were a symbol of both, and even acknowledging it would give it reality. Nynaeve thought they were all fools; it was just a mountain. Even still, she didn't stop to linger and look.
Nynaeve stomped past garden after luscious garden, held in an unnatural state of still growth by flagrant use of the Power, despite the cold winter. Huge green leaves shaded the dirt, with tiny pops of sun-yellow and blood-red blooms poking through. They matched the carvings on the walls, Ogier-made and seeming to undulate with petrified life. She could even see an Aes Sedai, her stole fringed with goose-grey fabric, weaving together Air, Water and Spirit in glowing gossamer lines, sinking the weave into the ground. A shudder wracked her spine, and she drew her fur-lined cloak closer. Her mind never accepted that anyone could halt nature in its progress, no matter how many ageless faces or static gardens she walked by, no matter the frequently-quashed desire in her heart to become one of those ageless faces, tending a static garden.
Finally, the tiles under her feet turned yellow. With a huff, tightening the grip on her hair, Nynaeve rushed towards the infirmary. Left, then right, follow the curve of the corridor until the second tapestry. Her feet followed the route to the infirmary with minimum prompting, having spent so much time studying both healing and Healing under Romanda Sedai. The Yellows were all still fascinated by Nynaeve's five-Power weave, but since she could only channel when angry, and an angry Power-laden woman wasn't the best person to have next to sick and dying people (and she had a vague suspicion that her flagrant dismissal of the traditional tripartite Healing had angered a few important Aes Sedai), she had been left blessedly alone for most of the time in the Yellow quarters. This time, though, she had been summoned for an entirely different purpose, and anger was very soon to come.
Recovery room Iris, room Buttercup, room Daffodil... The Yellow Ajah had tried to be fun and name each individual recovery room for a yellow flower, but it led to a very incongruous effect, where someone would be dying in the cheery room Marigold. Nynaeve's mind snapped to attention, her feet coming to a stop at room Sunflower. She slammed the door open on purpose, trying to startle everyone she knew would be there.
Her eyes, flashing like dark fires, landed on Gawyn Trakand. The First Prince of the Sword of Andor was laying half-naked in the bed, sheets and shirt alike flung to the ground in fevered delirium. Sweat beaded up on his skin, which had gone paler than the stone that Tar Valon was made of. His red-gold hair, usually a little unkempt, looked like a demented chicken had made a violent attempt of nesting, and a bit thin where the Prince had pulled madly at it. His blue eyes were wide open and wavering frantically.
His sister Elayne, Daughter-Heir to the Lion Throne and Rose Crown, did not look very royal, curled up at the foot of the bed, her banded Accepted dress soiled at the knees and elbows, the hem torn in multiple places. Fear and anger coagulated as hot tears racing down her cheeks, tracing paths through yet more dirt, but exhaustion wracked her usually-beautiful figure, holding her down onto the floor. Her hands gripped the bedframe, though. That girl always had too much fight in her.
Sitting by Gawyn's side was Galadedrid, the Damodred son of Morgase. His face was curled with distress - still incredibly gorgeous, but she crushed the feeling of heat and attraction that roiled at the base of her stomach - and his eyes had flicked up to Nynaeve's before resting back onto his half-brother. Galad's wooden practice sword leaned against the bed, and so did Lan, his spine just as rigid as the sword's.
Involuntarily, seeing Lan's figure, Nynaeve's hand went to her chest, finding the heavy golden signet resting between her breasts on a leather cord. Lan had promised himself to her, swearing on the Golden Crane of Malkier, but the fool denied her affections and proposals, some Light-blasted quote about how his only gift was widow's black. Burn him!. His stone-like face stared impassively out onto the room, eyes only alighting on her for just a second before continuing their sweep, but she saw the vein in his neck that popped out when he was worried, and the tiniest softening in his shoulders at Nynaeve's entrance. His Aes Sedai, Moiraine, was nowhere to be found, and neither was Egwene, and she sighed in relief, tinged with a little guilt. The Blue was absolutely insufferable, but Egwene had latched onto her like a leech, and was probably crying into the Sedai's stole right now.
Nynaeve jumped, startled as she saw the final person, sitting on the floor in the corner, someone she did not expect to find. They were dressed in a loose shirt and breeches, but it was definitely not a boy. She had close-cropped hair and cutting eyes that seemed to scrape her bones, and filled her with curious anger. Min.
"What are you doing here?"