(no subject)
A few men in the Red Badger's common room look startled at Lan's entrance, and turn abruptly to whisper to their neighbors. For a horrible instant he thinks time didn't stop while he was in Milliways, that he's stepped out of nowhere into this doorway after days or months or years--
And then he realizes that this is only recognition, of the sort he hasn't seen in nearly two years: Borderlanders recognizing the face of al'Akir's son, whispering titles he refuses to be called aloud.
Nearly two years, and no time has passed after all.
He ignores them, and goes to find his room.
Lan is out of shape for riding days on end. Just a little, but enough; enough for him to notice, and enough to confuse Mandarb. He kept in shape and in practice as best he could in Milliways, but this is one thing there wasn't much opportunity for, not to the standards of someone who's lived most of his life in the saddle.
He ignores it.
He knows what he needs to do. Discomfort is irrelevant. His body will catch up soon enough.
And it does.
He can feel Myrelle's presence far to the south of him. Whether she's masking the bond or not, she's far enough away that all he can feel is a rough location and the fact that she's alive. It's still more than he felt in all the time at Milliways, when all he knew was not dead and beyond the door.
He ignores that, too.
(And the other bond: the broken one, the torn hole inside where twenty years' connection was snapped apart. The everpresent despairing whisper that says she's gone, she's gone, avenge what can no longer be defended even at Milliways with Moiraine right in front of him.)
He rides on.
There's no one he'd speak to of either bond even if he could. Nynaeve doesn't want to hear about the first, and sees more than she's ever wanted to of the second every time she meets his eyes; both are matters that he and Moiraine keep silence on between themselves, because neither one of them is given to pointless speech or to rehashing what can't be changed. And no one else deserves to know.
Some things change from Milliways, that's all. And some stay the same.
He rides on.
Lan knows very well what speeds he can push Mandarb to, and what speeds he can't; this is a journey of weeks and leagues, and it's worse than idiocy to ride towards battle with a warhorse pushed to foundering. Even if he cared so little for his stallion as to do that to him, and they've been companions for years too, in their way.
He can't go as fast as he wants to.
Impatience serves no purpose. Impatience helps no one. He reminds himself of this; burns his emotions away in the meditative ko'di, picks his pace and makes himself hold to it, and rides on.
Almost two years ago -- only a week ago -- he decided that he needed to go to the Borderlands, to Shayol Ghul and the Last Battle. Not even for Nynaeve's sake could he bear to stay in the south, waiting and practicing and doing nothing of use while Rand al'Thor played his Seanchan games of politics and alliance.
A week, and then Milliways kidnapped him for months after months of an enforced exile and helpless leisure worse than he'd ever had to bear before. Almost two years, knowing the road to the Blight and the Last Battle lay just beyond a firmly locked door.
Impatience serves no purpose.
He rides on.
He doesn't blink or hesitate when he steps through doors. Not the first, not the second, not the tenth.
The Wheel weaves as it wills, and a man takes what he is given as best he can.
And he has half the Borderlands yet to cross.
And then he realizes that this is only recognition, of the sort he hasn't seen in nearly two years: Borderlanders recognizing the face of al'Akir's son, whispering titles he refuses to be called aloud.
Nearly two years, and no time has passed after all.
He ignores them, and goes to find his room.
Lan is out of shape for riding days on end. Just a little, but enough; enough for him to notice, and enough to confuse Mandarb. He kept in shape and in practice as best he could in Milliways, but this is one thing there wasn't much opportunity for, not to the standards of someone who's lived most of his life in the saddle.
He ignores it.
He knows what he needs to do. Discomfort is irrelevant. His body will catch up soon enough.
And it does.
He can feel Myrelle's presence far to the south of him. Whether she's masking the bond or not, she's far enough away that all he can feel is a rough location and the fact that she's alive. It's still more than he felt in all the time at Milliways, when all he knew was not dead and beyond the door.
He ignores that, too.
(And the other bond: the broken one, the torn hole inside where twenty years' connection was snapped apart. The everpresent despairing whisper that says she's gone, she's gone, avenge what can no longer be defended even at Milliways with Moiraine right in front of him.)
He rides on.
There's no one he'd speak to of either bond even if he could. Nynaeve doesn't want to hear about the first, and sees more than she's ever wanted to of the second every time she meets his eyes; both are matters that he and Moiraine keep silence on between themselves, because neither one of them is given to pointless speech or to rehashing what can't be changed. And no one else deserves to know.
Some things change from Milliways, that's all. And some stay the same.
He rides on.
Lan knows very well what speeds he can push Mandarb to, and what speeds he can't; this is a journey of weeks and leagues, and it's worse than idiocy to ride towards battle with a warhorse pushed to foundering. Even if he cared so little for his stallion as to do that to him, and they've been companions for years too, in their way.
He can't go as fast as he wants to.
Impatience serves no purpose. Impatience helps no one. He reminds himself of this; burns his emotions away in the meditative ko'di, picks his pace and makes himself hold to it, and rides on.
Almost two years ago -- only a week ago -- he decided that he needed to go to the Borderlands, to Shayol Ghul and the Last Battle. Not even for Nynaeve's sake could he bear to stay in the south, waiting and practicing and doing nothing of use while Rand al'Thor played his Seanchan games of politics and alliance.
A week, and then Milliways kidnapped him for months after months of an enforced exile and helpless leisure worse than he'd ever had to bear before. Almost two years, knowing the road to the Blight and the Last Battle lay just beyond a firmly locked door.
Impatience serves no purpose.
He rides on.
He doesn't blink or hesitate when he steps through doors. Not the first, not the second, not the tenth.
The Wheel weaves as it wills, and a man takes what he is given as best he can.
And he has half the Borderlands yet to cross.