[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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But X is, in her way, a friend, and even if he doesn't entirely agree with her (doesn't know how he feels about this, about coming out of the Last Battle alive) -- her vehemence gets the faintest softening of the harsh planes of his face. Just for an instant.
"I do not think the lights can be dimmed," X says, turning to look at Nynaeve a little more closely.
"But I have a room. Upstairs."
Beat.
"There is a shower."
It is strange how quickly politeness and hospitality will become the default in awkward situations. But clearly Lan and Nynaeve do not need food. Not yet, anyway.
Glorfindel crosses his arms, a veritable wall of elven disapproval at her current state. The jewels woven into his braids twinkle as he shakes his head.
Lan has a hand still under Nynaeve's elbow, in what would be simple courtesy if not for the subtle support in the gesture. This, too, is a Warder's job -- to protect an Aes Sedai from the world and from herself, and to be a rock to lean on. Glorfindel gets a mild glance. (There's very little that's sardonic in it, even for Lan, because Lan remembers.)
"I am healed," is all he says. (Nynaeve gets to answer for herself; if she were an iota less stubborn, she would probably be being carried right now.)
From the slashed and battered state of his clothing and armor, it's pretty clear that some of that copious amount of blood is his own. But the skin beneath is unharmed, and he's not holding himself like a wounded man.
He might not be even if he were wounded. The ko'di lets a man ignore pain a very long time. But as it happens, he isn't.
A young girl started in her chair when she saw them, some minutes ago, though now she's just glaring at them over her books.
If they don't notice her, it's very understandable. They are, after all, clearly straight from battle.
(Why Helen hasn't approached yet: Neither of them looks hurt, despite all the mess. And Lan has a woman with him; Helen doesn't know how to handle that social situation: is she a general, also? Is she his wife? Does his culture allow discussion with a woman while in the presence of his wife? Well, she'd clearly be an idiot if she took offense, because Helen is only thirteen and that would be stupid. It's that that makes up her mind.)
"You don't need the infirmary?" she asks, stiffly, arms crossed (about three feet away).
Every familiar face he sees here is beyond surreal. He expected to be dead -- he fought towards death, fought in dust and blood and tainted heat until he could fight no longer -- and now abruptly he's here, in this brightly lit impossible inn where no swords ring and nobody's dying and nothing seems to have changed.
"Helen," he says, in greeting and mostly for Nynaeve's benefit.
(He hopes, distantly, that he isn't forgetting one of the courtesies of her people. But he's a little distracted just now.)
"No, thank you."
If there were a healer he trusted, for Nynaeve, that would be different. But the infirmary in and of itself is no use, and one never knows who'll be there. What she needs most is sleep.
There's a pause, where her sureness slips a little, with worry.
"You are alive?" she asks, blunt because there's no way to ask it otherwise. Her glance shifts to the woman with him, and her lips flatten. She needs sleep; or if sleep isn't an option, she needs coffee.
When Tom catches sight of the two figures, he doesn't recognize them at first. However, they are two people in obvious need of aid, and he is someone who will offer it, if need be.
As he approaches, though, he realizes who they are.
"Temple and Arch, Nynaeve, Lan? Are you quite alright?"
His wand is out, ready to cast any kinds of basic first aid spells he's capable of casting.
Well, time is always weird at Milliways. This goes at the unimportant end of a very, very long list of things Lan will think about later.
"If you have any remedies for exhaustion," he says, impassively ignoring Nynaeve's earlier protestations, "it would be appreciated. Nynaeve has done a great deal."
Three guesses who gets the remedies. Hint: it's not Lan.
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."
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And then the second scent registers, and she's up and moving toward the door almost before she can think.
It's not that she ignores Nynaeve, but she positions herself at Lan's other side, half-tilted to face his wife, and looks up at him.
She scents the air carefully, then reaches out to rest her hand on his chest. Just for a second. Just to double-check.
"You are not dead."
Beat.
"Good."
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(It's beyond strange to be alive.)
But X is, in her way, a friend, and even if he doesn't entirely agree with her (doesn't know how he feels about this, about coming out of the Last Battle alive) -- her vehemence gets the faintest softening of the harsh planes of his face. Just for an instant.
"I am not," he agrees.
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This is clearly something they will have to work out. Later.
When she can think.
"Neither of us are, which is something that was a lot less sure before today. Light, why is it so bloody bright in here?"
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"But I have a room. Upstairs."
Beat.
"There is a shower."
It is strange how quickly politeness and hospitality will become the default in awkward situations. But clearly Lan and Nynaeve do not need food. Not yet, anyway.
They are not that much like Stitch.
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Or he was.
There are five elves who would know the expression that's currently on his face.
Four of those elves are directly related to his long-dead king.
The other just has the supreme misfortune of finding himself the focus of Glorfindel's protective tendencies.
"My lady Nynaeve." Is it too late to turn back?
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It doesn't help.
"How -- lovely -- to see you."
She's missing a shoe. Light curse it, she's missing a shoe.
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"Can you both walk?"
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"I am healed," is all he says. (Nynaeve gets to answer for herself; if she were an iota less stubborn, she would probably be being carried right now.)
From the slashed and battered state of his clothing and armor, it's pretty clear that some of that copious amount of blood is his own. But the skin beneath is unharmed, and he's not holding himself like a wounded man.
He might not be even if he were wounded. The ko'di lets a man ignore pain a very long time. But as it happens, he isn't.
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If they don't notice her, it's very understandable. They are, after all, clearly straight from battle.
(Why Helen hasn't approached yet: Neither of them looks hurt, despite all the mess. And Lan has a woman with him; Helen doesn't know how to handle that social situation: is she a general, also? Is she his wife? Does his culture allow discussion with a woman while in the presence of his wife? Well, she'd clearly be an idiot if she took offense, because Helen is only thirteen and that would be stupid. It's that that makes up her mind.)
"You don't need the infirmary?" she asks, stiffly, arms crossed (about three feet away).
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"Helen," he says, in greeting and mostly for Nynaeve's benefit.
(He hopes, distantly, that he isn't forgetting one of the courtesies of her people. But he's a little distracted just now.)
"No, thank you."
If there were a healer he trusted, for Nynaeve, that would be different. But the infirmary in and of itself is no use, and one never knows who'll be there. What she needs most is sleep.
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"You are alive?" she asks, blunt because there's no way to ask it otherwise. Her glance shifts to the woman with him, and her lips flatten. She needs sleep; or if sleep isn't an option, she needs coffee.
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"Otherwise we wouldn't smell."
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As he approaches, though, he realizes who they are.
"Temple and Arch, Nynaeve, Lan? Are you quite alright?"
His wand is out, ready to cast any kinds of basic first aid spells he's capable of casting.
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"We're quite well."
Her hand hovers mid-air for a moment, because tugging her braid will hurt and smoothing out her dress is fruitless.
She rests it on her hip instead, chin tilting up.
"I do hope much time hasn't passed since we left."
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He cocks his head, brow furrowed. They don't look well. But it is not wise to speak against Nynaeve, Tom has learned.
"Welcome back. You've been missed."
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Well, time is always weird at Milliways. This goes at the unimportant end of a very, very long list of things Lan will think about later.
"If you have any remedies for exhaustion," he says, impassively ignoring Nynaeve's earlier protestations, "it would be appreciated. Nynaeve has done a great deal."
Three guesses who gets the remedies. Hint: it's not Lan.
"Light illumine you, Tom."
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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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