(no subject)
Lamma Sor is the Day of Remembrance, in every country of the Borderlands.
On that day -- on this day -- every man, woman, and child of the four nations (and Malkier, the dead and scattered fifth) drinks only water, eats only bread and salt and oil. The fast, and the vigil, is in honor of those who have fallen in defense of the Borderlands against the Blight, and in honor of those who have yet to die.
Every family has names to remember.
Lan, since before he learned to speak, has had an entire nation.
al'Akir Mandragoran.
el'Leanna Mandragoran.
Lain Mandragoran.
Isam Mandragoran.
A nation is too many individuals to mourn. Too many for any human mind to wrap around. Lan was only an infant when Malkier fell; he has no memory of the Seven Towers of a living city.
His memory of Malkier is stories told by old grim warriors, and crumbling infested stone in the Blight.
His memory of his parents is small painted faces in a locket, and the same stories told by the same men.
You honor all that you can. Other's memories, and your own.
Bukama Marenellin.
Geman Jerastellin.
Unas Nerran.
Kumari Nerran.
Takema Aldragerrinan.
This is his second Lamma Sor at Milliways.
One year and five months: in all that time, he's seen his own world once. Seen the tainted, reeking mountain of Shayol Ghul in the distance; fought for one short fight against the Halfmen and Trollocs who are among the enemies he knows best. Seen the slopes where the Last Battle will be fought, and where he longs to be. Seen it, and been pulled back to Milliways.
In all his life, he's never been so comprehensively in exile.
Prince Brys Cosaru.
Diryk Cosaru.
Iselle Arrel.
Lady Edeyn ti Gemallen Arrel.
Lord Ingtar of House Shinowara.
Alric Gaidin.
Anaiya Aes Sedai.
Setagana Gaidin.
Lord Hirare Nachiman.
Lord Aranvor Naldwinn.
Sakaru Unewara.
Alin Seroku.
The Green Man.
Every man who died to carry him out of Malkier. Every man, woman, and child who died when Malkier fell. Every man who died at Tarwin's Gap, at the Stair of Jehaan, in the Aiel Wars, in the Blood Snow, in the thousand raids into the Blight and thousand thousand defenses against it. Every fighter and civilian dead in Rand al'Thor's army. Every Aes Sedai and Warder fallen.
Every hero of old, whose life reminds and inspires. Men and women of Paedrag's day, of the Trolloc Wars, of Manetheren and Jaramide and Aramaelle, of Basharande and Elsalam and Rhamdashar. Of the southern lands, of Malkier, Saldaea, Kandor, Arafel, Shienar.
And on, and on.
Here at Milliways there is Nynaeve, his wife and his love.
Here at Milliways is Moiraine, friend and partner of twenty years and more, whom he thought -- whom he knew -- to be dead.
There are graces, here.
In the choice between joy and duty, Lan knows what he will choose. Every time. The fact that a high price must be paid is the proof that it is worth paying. His heart longs for Shayol Ghul, and duty, and death.
But still: there are graces, here.
Moiraine Damodred Aes Sedai.
Now and always, in spite of all.
He shares breakfast with Nynaeve: bread, salt and oil, plain water. Three drops sprinkled for that land, and the words of sober ritual.
Together, they keep the vigil.
He does sword work. He follows Nynaeve into London Below to heal a patient, and stalks at her heels like a half-tamed leopard, like the Warder he is. He goes to Milliways, later, to walk outside, and to greet with a silent nod and without surprise the blue-gowned figure who meets him there. With Moiraine, too, he shares the meal of fasting, the words of remembrance.
Together, they keep the vigil.
They say little, all three of them, all day. There is little need for words.
The watch is not yet done.
May we all know peace one day.
And on that day, may the land no longer thirst. May we all be welcomed home.
May the hand of the Creator shelter us all.
On that day -- on this day -- every man, woman, and child of the four nations (and Malkier, the dead and scattered fifth) drinks only water, eats only bread and salt and oil. The fast, and the vigil, is in honor of those who have fallen in defense of the Borderlands against the Blight, and in honor of those who have yet to die.
Every family has names to remember.
Lan, since before he learned to speak, has had an entire nation.
al'Akir Mandragoran.
el'Leanna Mandragoran.
Lain Mandragoran.
Isam Mandragoran.
A nation is too many individuals to mourn. Too many for any human mind to wrap around. Lan was only an infant when Malkier fell; he has no memory of the Seven Towers of a living city.
His memory of Malkier is stories told by old grim warriors, and crumbling infested stone in the Blight.
His memory of his parents is small painted faces in a locket, and the same stories told by the same men.
You honor all that you can. Other's memories, and your own.
Bukama Marenellin.
Geman Jerastellin.
Unas Nerran.
Kumari Nerran.
Takema Aldragerrinan.
This is his second Lamma Sor at Milliways.
One year and five months: in all that time, he's seen his own world once. Seen the tainted, reeking mountain of Shayol Ghul in the distance; fought for one short fight against the Halfmen and Trollocs who are among the enemies he knows best. Seen the slopes where the Last Battle will be fought, and where he longs to be. Seen it, and been pulled back to Milliways.
In all his life, he's never been so comprehensively in exile.
Prince Brys Cosaru.
Diryk Cosaru.
Iselle Arrel.
Lady Edeyn ti Gemallen Arrel.
Lord Ingtar of House Shinowara.
Alric Gaidin.
Anaiya Aes Sedai.
Setagana Gaidin.
Lord Hirare Nachiman.
Lord Aranvor Naldwinn.
Sakaru Unewara.
Alin Seroku.
The Green Man.
Every man who died to carry him out of Malkier. Every man, woman, and child who died when Malkier fell. Every man who died at Tarwin's Gap, at the Stair of Jehaan, in the Aiel Wars, in the Blood Snow, in the thousand raids into the Blight and thousand thousand defenses against it. Every fighter and civilian dead in Rand al'Thor's army. Every Aes Sedai and Warder fallen.
Every hero of old, whose life reminds and inspires. Men and women of Paedrag's day, of the Trolloc Wars, of Manetheren and Jaramide and Aramaelle, of Basharande and Elsalam and Rhamdashar. Of the southern lands, of Malkier, Saldaea, Kandor, Arafel, Shienar.
And on, and on.
Here at Milliways there is Nynaeve, his wife and his love.
Here at Milliways is Moiraine, friend and partner of twenty years and more, whom he thought -- whom he knew -- to be dead.
There are graces, here.
In the choice between joy and duty, Lan knows what he will choose. Every time. The fact that a high price must be paid is the proof that it is worth paying. His heart longs for Shayol Ghul, and duty, and death.
But still: there are graces, here.
Moiraine Damodred Aes Sedai.
Now and always, in spite of all.
He shares breakfast with Nynaeve: bread, salt and oil, plain water. Three drops sprinkled for that land, and the words of sober ritual.
Together, they keep the vigil.
He does sword work. He follows Nynaeve into London Below to heal a patient, and stalks at her heels like a half-tamed leopard, like the Warder he is. He goes to Milliways, later, to walk outside, and to greet with a silent nod and without surprise the blue-gowned figure who meets him there. With Moiraine, too, he shares the meal of fasting, the words of remembrance.
Together, they keep the vigil.
They say little, all three of them, all day. There is little need for words.
The watch is not yet done.
May we all know peace one day.
And on that day, may the land no longer thirst. May we all be welcomed home.
May the hand of the Creator shelter us all.