Paul stands after, feeling power within him, settling over the sorrow for now: still it is not over. Not even yet.
"With everything that has happened today," he says, aloud - Jaelle, he is aware, is listening, but he's speaking to himself as much as her - "there is one thing left to be done, and it is mine to do, I think."
He walks through a group of men, standing about helplessly towards the center of the plain. They part as he passes.
It is very quiet.
The last few men step aside, and Paul is facing Galadan, at the center of the circle.
"We meet for the third time," he says, "as I promised you we would."
So many people he has promised: Moiraine, Wellard, Kim, Amairgen . . .
"I told you in my own world that the third time would pay for all."
Still Galadan weeps, though eventually all that long-held sorrow is released, and he raises his head, eyes dark hollows in his too-pale face.
All his attention seems to be on Paul, now, though in truth the majority of it rests with his father upon the hill.
Father.
"You would truly do this? Let me go from here?"
Hope and despair are at war in his voice, in his face, in his soul.
It is an old, old, battle, and only recently has hope even begun to edge toward the fray. It will be a long time yet before any can know which impulse might win.
"You said I was almost one of you, but you were wrong, Galadan."
He says it quietly, and with compassion. Being wrong: that, too, is something that Galadan will have to learn.
"The truth is, you were almost one of us, but you didn't know it then. You had put it too far behind you. Now you know, you have remembered. There has been more than enough killing today. Go home, unquiet spirit, and find healing. Then come back among us with the blessing of what you should always have been."
For a moment there is something almost bright in Galadan's eyes as he listens to Paul, as he absorbs all that the Twiceborn says, all the promise in his words.
His hands gradually relax at his sides as he nods, once.
Then, one hand over his heart, he bows, deep and graceful, much as his father once bowed, long ago and almost yesterday, to the Lord of the Summer Tree.
He turns toward that same father, steps slow and so careful as he moves through the circle of men he sought to kill only moments ago, and approaches Cernan, lord of the beasts.
The horned god watches him come, sunlight gilding both the grand figure and the shattered one in a sudden bright warmth.
Galadan watches his father a moment, then bows his head as Cernan opens his arms wide and gathers his wayward child to his breast.
The golden light flares brighter, flares silver, and when the afterimages fade, god and andain are gone.
One, at least, will return ere long, whole again and bright as the dawn.
Jaelle rises first from the side of the dead boy.
Paul stands after, feeling power within him, settling over the sorrow for now: still it is not over. Not even yet.
"With everything that has happened today," he says, aloud - Jaelle, he is aware, is listening, but he's speaking to himself as much as her - "there is one thing left to be done, and it is mine to do, I think."
He walks through a group of men, standing about helplessly towards the center of the plain. They part as he passes.
It is very quiet.
The last few men step aside, and Paul is facing Galadan, at the center of the circle.
"We meet for the third time," he says, "as I promised you we would."
So many people he has promised: Moiraine, Wellard, Kim, Amairgen . . .
"I told you in my own world that the third time would pay for all."
Reply
All his attention seems to be on Paul, now, though in truth the majority of it rests with his father upon the hill.
Father.
"You would truly do this? Let me go from here?"
Hope and despair are at war in his voice, in his face, in his soul.
It is an old, old, battle, and only recently has hope even begun to edge toward the fray. It will be a long time yet before any can know which impulse might win.
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He says it loudly, now, and clearly, and though there are frowns, he knows not a single person will gainsay his right.
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"Why?"
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Paul hesitates, a moment, before going on.
"And because of another thing. When you first came to kill me on the Summer Tree you said something. Do you remember?"
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He only nods, slowly, winter-grey eyes fixed on Paul, desperation and hope hidden beneath his half-lowered eyelids.
Reply
He says it quietly, and with compassion. Being wrong: that, too, is something that Galadan will have to learn.
"The truth is, you were almost one of us, but you didn't know it then. You had put it too far behind you. Now you know, you have remembered. There has been more than enough killing today. Go home, unquiet spirit, and find healing. Then come back among us with the blessing of what you should always have been."
Reply
His hands gradually relax at his sides as he nods, once.
Then, one hand over his heart, he bows, deep and graceful, much as his father once bowed, long ago and almost yesterday, to the Lord of the Summer Tree.
He turns toward that same father, steps slow and so careful as he moves through the circle of men he sought to kill only moments ago, and approaches Cernan, lord of the beasts.
The horned god watches him come, sunlight gilding both the grand figure and the shattered one in a sudden bright warmth.
Galadan watches his father a moment, then bows his head as Cernan opens his arms wide and gathers his wayward child to his breast.
The golden light flares brighter, flares silver, and when the afterimages fade, god and andain are gone.
One, at least, will return ere long, whole again and bright as the dawn.
Reply
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