el'Nynaeve ti al'Meara Mandragoran

She's heard talk of the calm before the storm, but there's no calm here. It's one front after another thudding against the shore, dumping its load of rain and wind and terror down on them just in time for the next to roll in. She can feel it in the air, and it makes her sick to her stomach.

Nynaeve has a moment, fast and fleeting as sheet lightning, to wish that Lan were here, that she could see him one last time--

Then the world goes to hell--as some in Milliways would say--and all Nynaeve can do is try to keep abreast of it. She's got a brief moment to be grateful for the angreal and ter'angreal on her wrist and fingers; without them she'd likely be overwhelmed already. Moghedien is somewhere about, not to mention the rest of the thrice-damned Forsaken, and Nynaeve can't afford to die yet. Or to lose sight of Rand. Or to--

She grits her teeth, channeling a complex mass of Fire and Air to protect herself from incoming fireballs, then darts after that bloody fool of a sheepherder. He lacks the sense the Creator gave a horse, and Light knows those are some of the most bloody fool creatures on the planet.

Now, if only their plan to lure some of the weaker Forsaken out into the open works--

The Kin are holding steady, Sisters and Asha'man interspersed among them. It's good to see, but Nynaeve is already shifting position so that she can keep an eye on Rand. And Logain. And--

Blood and bloody ashes!

"Rand!"

Nynaeve is readying the Weave for balefire almost before she's aware of it and--Moghedien? Semirhage? Demandred? (does it even matter now? will the knowledge help her harm them before Rand himself is destroyed?)--

Light help us all

The battle is joined.

Nynaeve knew, when the door returned, that she'd be going back to chaos, to war, and to a desperate uncertainty about whether there would be a tomorrow to plan for.

But with Cadsuane getting her nose in everyone's business, that twice bloody and light-blinded fool Logain lurking around (why ever she Healed the man, she doesn't know), and Rand retreating from humanity almost faster than Nynaeve can catch up--

Well, it's no wonder that she's losing sleep. It's nothing to do with worrying about Lan. She's not the time to worry about her man, or Myrelle, or what it means that the Golden Crane rides again. There'll be time for that later.

She pauses in her brisk pace, running quick fingers over her skirts, twisting her braid around one hand. Then she squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and prepares to confront Semirhage.

Someone has got to advise Rand on what to do, and it may as well be someone who considers his survival her highest priority. The rest of the blasted world (save Lan, always save Lan) can bloody well go hang.

It's a madhouse, it's a charnel house, and for the span of a moment Nynaeve is frozen, pulled in every direction at once.

Absently she hears the singing of the fayth, but there is no time to concentrate on it, no time to be discomfited by the strangeness of it all, or the harshness of the light, or the prickle of electricity in the air.

She takes a deep breath, drawing herself to her full height (as unimpressive as that may be).

"Well. We'd best start somewhere, and quickly."

She's already rolling up her sleeves, a habit developed so long ago it's not even worth mentioning.

And then she turns to her left, nodding over her shoulder for Moiraine, and begins to work.

Her rooms in the House of Arch still don't feel like home, despite all that has been done to make them comfortable.

But Lan--Lan is there, and so there is a great deal of relief to be found once they both settle in for the evening.

Business--and there is always business remaining, always, they both know that--can be dealt with later.

For now, there's just this.

Just them.

Light, how she needs this, some days.

Nynaeve is brushing out her hair in the bedroom, still a little damp from her bath.

Quite likely she'd be sitting closer to the fire if she could be, but there's only so much proximity a human body can bear.

Pity, that.

All right. So the door won't open. Nynaeve has other means of travel at her disposal.

Or rather, Travel.

Which is why she is currently pacing a small square of grass outside, frowning thoughtfully at the ground.

She'll be here for some time, yet.

It's much better than sitting still.

Nynaeve unbraids her hair by rote, washes her face in a basin of cool water, and slips out of her dress and into a plain cotton nightgown.

Then she sits on her bed, one leg hanging down, toes barely brushing the plush carpet, hands folded tightly in her lap.

It is so tempting, in this moment, to embrace saidar, draw it in until all she can feel is that overwhelming bliss, until there's nothing left of her but that joy. It has been like that once before, and some part of her longs to feel it again.

But no. She cannot afford to burn herself out--coward she might be, but not selfish, never selfish enough for that.

Never.

She swallows heavily, knuckles gone white as her hands clutch at each other. There will be bruising in the morning, she notes absently, but that is something easily taken care of.

There are so few matters that one might categorize that way.

Even fewer back home, where Rand fights madness and the fears of several nations, where Egwene holds hard to the reins of power in the fractured Tower, where Elayne seeks to win a crown, where Lan--

She swallows again.

--where Lan rides off to (death) war, and the Golden Crane (oh, Light, please let the Golden Crane ride) goes to meet him.

Meanwhile she is here, in this bar, twiddling her thumbs, and reading her books, and watching the universe end over and over and over again.

And it's all her own fault.

Light burn you, you bloody stupid coward.

Coward.

She won't forget again.

Moiraine had (one would assume kindly) offered Nynaeve the use of her study for the day, and the former Wisdom had taken full advantage of it.

She spent a great deal of time curled up in one of the comfortable armchairs, keeping herself occupied with knitting, and some degree of reminiscence.

Currently she is seated at the desk, a neat array of papers before her. She appears to be making lists, hardly distracted, at least now, by the flickering blue light coming from a nearby shelf.

Of course it had to be blue.

1). She loves Lan above all else. And it is because of this that she will fight the Shadow at all costs. Well, almost all.
2). She is beginning to understand Moiraine. She really hates that, at least most of the time. She wonders if Moiraine ever felt the same way about the Aes Sedai of her time.
3). She often misses using her woodscraft and will often practice it on the road. It makes traveling bearable.
4). She is grateful for being pulled into the bar. It gives her a space to get her emotions under control before she goes back into the fray.
5). She feels like she should be frugal and hate spending money. The siren call of frippery, or at least well-tailored dresses, is beyond her control.
6). She resents the existence of those stronger in the Power than her about as much as she is grateful for them.
7). Mat Cauthon drives her around the bend. So do most other men, and about half the women she's ever met. If only everyone would listen to her, they'd be better off.
8). She knows the latter part of 7. is untrue, but wishes she was more certain about the choices she makes.
9). She firmly believes that anything can be Healed. You just have to keep trying.
10). She is almost certain that, even with all she can do, Rand will die.
11). She wants to be certain that she would choose the fate of the world over Rand's life (or anyone from Emond's Field). In the dark of the night, when she's alone in her bed, she isn't sure at all.