[OOM: Aftermath.]There are too many to heal, too many bleeding and dying, tangled among the corpses, for anyone's skills and strength. But Nynaeve has never accepted her own limits easily
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Kratos knows that look on them all too well. He's lived through more wars than they can imagine and began his life in one. From where he's sitting, he looks it, too, with his dark, sturdy armor and well-made, plain sword.
And so, very quietly, from off to the side, he gives them what might be termed an offering of solidarity. "Healing Wind," he casts almost inaudibly.
Well, Lan and Nynaeve? You might not be any cleaner, but you should at least feel like a lot of energy has been restored, and have any surface damage at least mostly or partially taken care of.
And that restored energy, nice as it is, stiffens Nynaeve's spine like a bolt of lightning. She opens herself to saidar immediately, half stumbling as the effort proves to be almost too much.
Almost.
Her gaze sweeps the crowd as her hand tightens on Lan's forearm.
This may need to be his battle, if it comes to that.
But she'll be prepared to do what she can. While she can.
The headache is almost blinding. Blood and bloody ashes.
Lan spins in the same moment. He can't feel magic -- but he can feel that change, like Healing but not from any Aes Sedai in sight, and he can feel Nynaeve's reaction.
Another time, this would result in his hands tightening on his sword hilt, but no more. But Lan hasn't been in Milliways in weeks; he's been on the road and in battle, fighting desperately, and it was only a moment ago that they were on that same battlefield. All his nerves are still strung tight, and his wife is exhausted enough to need protection, and he can feel the stab of her headache at this new exertion.
Which is to say, Lan spins, and his sword is in his hands, and he's waiting, scanning the room with his body blocking Nynaeve.
Kratos just sits quietly at his barstool, sipping his much-needed drink. It isn't immediately apparent that he did anything at all, really.
Although, after a few minutes, he will say quietly, "Tea or plain water are good for the mind after a long battle, I've found--and some simple bread and fruit, if it's available. Meat only if you can afford the time to rest, as well."
"Next time," he says, flat and cold, "you might think to ask before casting weaves at strangers."
Even ones meant to help.
(Also, Lan knew what to do after battles when he was a boy, and knew it from experience too by the time he was sixteen. So the advice doesn't win many points either, alas.)
The terminology is entirely unfamiliar, but Kratos is getting the hang of the Bar. He interpolates easily enough.
Kratos is deeply unimpressed by Lan's being unimpressed. He is also unimpressed by the threat to box his ears. In fact, he only shrugs and continues to nurse his ale.
. . .
Apparently if they're going to be unimpressed, he'll be unimpressed and not ask how their battle went, or offer help.
The problem here is that Lan is paranoid, and Lan is often rude, and Lan just came from the worst battle of his war-ridden life, and magic like that is used by enemies as well as friends.
So the man didn't mean harm, apparently. He's just an idiot.
But Lan isn't going to thank him. Not for an unwanted spell, cast unasked.
He sheathes his sword, with a fluid angry grace. "Come," he says to Nynaeve, and turns towards the stairs. She needs rest, and further conversation will win them nothing.
He's still keeping himself between Kratos and Nynaeve, and will as long as it's practical to do so.
And so, very quietly, from off to the side, he gives them what might be termed an offering of solidarity. "Healing Wind," he casts almost inaudibly.
Well, Lan and Nynaeve? You might not be any cleaner, but you should at least feel like a lot of energy has been restored, and have any surface damage at least mostly or partially taken care of.
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Almost.
Her gaze sweeps the crowd as her hand tightens on Lan's forearm.
This may need to be his battle, if it comes to that.
But she'll be prepared to do what she can. While she can.
The headache is almost blinding. Blood and bloody ashes.
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Another time, this would result in his hands tightening on his sword hilt, but no more. But Lan hasn't been in Milliways in weeks; he's been on the road and in battle, fighting desperately, and it was only a moment ago that they were on that same battlefield. All his nerves are still strung tight, and his wife is exhausted enough to need protection, and he can feel the stab of her headache at this new exertion.
Which is to say, Lan spins, and his sword is in his hands, and he's waiting, scanning the room with his body blocking Nynaeve.
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Although, after a few minutes, he will say quietly, "Tea or plain water are good for the mind after a long battle, I've found--and some simple bread and fruit, if it's available. Meat only if you can afford the time to rest, as well."
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"I should box your ears, you Light-blinded fool. Blood and bloody ashes, have you not a thought in your head?"
If he were closer, she might very well try to box his ears. As it is --
As it is she's fairly spitting in exhausted rage.
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Deeply, deeply unimpressed.
"Next time," he says, flat and cold, "you might think to ask before casting weaves at strangers."
Even ones meant to help.
(Also, Lan knew what to do after battles when he was a boy, and knew it from experience too by the time he was sixteen. So the advice doesn't win many points either, alas.)
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Kratos is deeply unimpressed by Lan's being unimpressed. He is also unimpressed by the threat to box his ears. In fact, he only shrugs and continues to nurse his ale.
. . .
Apparently if they're going to be unimpressed, he'll be unimpressed and not ask how their battle went, or offer help.
And silent, of course.
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If looks could kill --
Well, if looks could kill Kratos would be joining a Forsaken or two at this very moment.
If she had any strength to spare for channeling --
But she doesn't. Luckily for everyone.
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So the man didn't mean harm, apparently. He's just an idiot.
But Lan isn't going to thank him. Not for an unwanted spell, cast unasked.
He sheathes his sword, with a fluid angry grace. "Come," he says to Nynaeve, and turns towards the stairs. She needs rest, and further conversation will win them nothing.
He's still keeping himself between Kratos and Nynaeve, and will as long as it's practical to do so.
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