[aMoL Reactions. What did you think?]

 

1. Cadsuane's fate is fitting. She always had the makings of an Amyrlin.

 

2. I am in agreement about Moiraine. I would have liked to hear more about the way her character might have changed as a result of the imprisonment.

 

3. Siuan's death saddened me a lot. I really wanted her to see Moiraine again.

 

4. I need to hear what was said between Tuon and Artur Hawkwing

 

5. Gaidal Cain/Birgitte = Olver/Elayne's girl? I want to believe this is true.

 

6. Did Morgase die? I seem to remember something about Elayne seeing a familiar red-headed woman's corpse being carried out (tied to a horse?) by one of Mellar's men? If this is so, what of Tallanvor?

 

7. I love how Thom said the word "epic" is overused

 

8. Berelain/Galad? Do they end up together?

 

9. What happens to the Aiel now? Pretty loose end there I think.

 

10. I was expecting more of a shock to the Seanchan after learning that sul'dam are basically marath'damane. I wonder if Cadsuane will forge a campaign against them to end their tyranny of channeling women.

 

 

There's more points I'm sure, just a few off the top of my head there.

[Songs that "fit" the Wheel of Time?]

Yeah, that's it. At first when you said that song it made me think of a'dam, but yeah Padan Fain is perfect for that one.

 

That song even has chanting in the Old Tongue haha

[Songs that "fit" the Wheel of Time?]

Another example is anytime I read about Semirhage.

 

I'm not sure if this had ever been confirmed by RJ, but Semi, who was a great physician back in her day, derived great pleasure out of her sadism, and thus reminds me of Nazi Auschwitz physician Josef Mengele; I wonder if he was the inspiration for Semi's evil. Which then in turn reminds me of the song Angel of Death by Slayer.

 

The lyrics would need to be slightly modified, of course, as they often are with other songs throughout the ages in the WoT fiction. I envision Dreadlords who can channel the One Power playing her theme song with instruments which project their sounds out with weaves and get all the cool distortion and wah effects with flows of the Power.

Slayer Semirhage's Dreadlord Shadowbards - Angel of Death

 

Semirhage, the meaning of pain

The way that I want you to die

Slow death, immense decay

Powers that cleanse you of your life

Forced in

Like cattle

You run

Stripped of

Your life's worth

Human mice, for the Angel of Death

Four hundred thousand more to die

 

Angel of Death

Monarch to the kingdom of the dead

 

Sadistic, surgeon of demise

Sadist of the noblest blood

 

Destroying, without mercy

To benefit the Father of the Dark.

 

Surgery, with no anesthesia

Feel the threads pierce you intensely

Inferior, no use to mankind

Strapped down screaming out to die

 

Angel of Death

Monarch to the kingdom of the dead

Infamous butcher,

Angel of Death

 

Pumped with weaves, inside your brain

Pressure in your skull begins pushing through your eyes

Burning flesh, drips away

Test of heat burns your skin, your mind starts to boil

Frigid cold, cracks your limbs

How long can you last

In this frozen water burial?

Sewn together, joining heads

Just a matter of time

'Til you rip yourselves apart

Millions laid out in their

Crowded tombs

Sickening ways to achieve

The holocaust

Seas of blood, bury life

Smell your death as it burns

Deep inside of you

Abacinate, eyes that bleed

Praying for the end of

Your wide awake nightmare

Wings of pain, reach out for you

Her face of death staring down,

Your blood running cold

Injecting cells, dying eyes

Feeding on the screams of

The mutants she's creating

Pathetic harmless victims

Left to die

Rancid Angel of Death

Flying free

[Songs that "fit" the Wheel of Time?]

Ok, so here's a question for you fellow MWers:

 

Can you think of any songs, contemporary or otherwise, that can be "press-fit" to the theme of the Wheel of Time?

 

Furthermore, can you imagine any songs that you can envision being sung or even played(at least in their heads) by any characters?

 

Include in your thoughts guitars and instruments not present in the WoT. With the One Power, assume that all manner of music can be produced, far exceeding the capabilities of the current day.

 

I caught bits of that song "Again" by Flyleaf on the radio today, after I had finished reading some WoT, and caught my mind wandering in a Randland context while listening to the lyrics. Observe:

 

Flyleaf Moiraine Damodred - Again (singing of Rand al'Thor <--- I know you guys hate him, just bear with me please, lol!)

 

I love the way that your heart breaks (Momo approves of Rand's worry and compassion for people

With every injustice and deadly fate he's killed or tough decicions he's made)

Praying it all will be new

And living like it all depends on you (Hoping he will win TG; and it sort of does, he is the DR)

 

Here you are down on your knees again (Rand trying to seek advice from her, or wiser people)

Trying to find air to breathe again (Trying to find his way around his madness or politics)

And only surrender will help you now (Surrender to her will, or fate, or duty as the DR)

I love you please see and believe again (Believe that he can do what he needs to do)

I love that you're never satisfied (Rand constantly tries to read into things, which Momo

With face value wisdom and happy lies appreciates because of her Daes Daemar background)

You take what they say and go back and cry (Lamenting about the death he is prophesied to cause)

You're so close to me that you nearly died (Obvious Lanfear/twisted doorway reference)

Here you are down on your knees again

Trying to find air to breathe again

And only surrender will help you now

I love you please see and believe again

 

They don't have to understand you

Be still

Wait and know I understand you (Momo "gets" him. She's his only real friend outside of the

Be still Emond's Fielders, and even then, who knows?)

Be still

 

Here you are down on your knees again

Trying to find air to breathe again

And only surrender will help you now

The floodgates are breaking and pouring out (Saidin is overflowing the world, or the DO is pouring out his armies, or simply so much is changing so quickly)

 

Here you are down on your knees

Trying to find air to breathe

Right where I want you to be again (Rand eventually gets to where Momo wants him )

I love you please see and believe again

 

Here you are down on your knees again

Trying to find air to breathe again

Right where I want you to be again

See and believe!

[New Style Fic:]

Moiraine sat on a stump in a small clearing near a tributary of the Akuum River. Embracing the True Source, she wove a curtain of air for privacy as she lifted her skirts to address her saddle soreness. She and Lan had been on the Bandar Eban road since dawn with nary a rest between them. The bond made long hauls somewhat less grueling, but she was certain even he could feel her throbbing rear. How he rode that warhorse of his without tire, she would never know.

 

She had finished rubbing a salve onto her naked hip when surprise and determination came through the bond suddenly. Hurriedly she let down and adjusted her skirts while releasing the weave of air. With saidar filling her, she could make out the silhouette of Lan in the moonlight, his sword nimbly flitting to catch the blows of a ruffian swordsman, who as Moiraine could see, was no slouch with the blade himself. A trickle of something trembled down the bond. She had never known Lan to be worried in battle, but that is what is most closely resembled. She drank in more of the One Power to strain her vision. That sweet ecstasy wanted to consume her, and she wanted to let it, but she maintained control. Moiraine gasped as the ruffian swung his blade with inconceivable quickness right at Lan's neck. There was definitely worry in the bond, that time.

 

Moiraine felt the blood rush back to her face as Lan punched the brigand, knocking him down. This time surprise was profound in the bond, unmistakable. What had gotten into the man? Lan carried no heron mark blade, but he was a blademaster, perhaps one of the best in the Borderlands. Moiraine had never even seen him lose a sparring match; she had witnessed his lethal efficiency with a sword more than once, and against numerous opponents, too. What had the brigand done to catch him so off-guard?

 

In no time Lan's opponent was up on his feet again, with a practiced leap from supine. He unleashed the Dark One's own fury against Lan, a flurry of slashes and thrusts only a man of Lan's skill could counter. He was very good -- certainly the best of Lan's foes she had ever seen. Moiraine watched as Lan dodged and parried, and the concern in the bond grew thicker with each deadly stroke evaded. He was better than this man -- why was he hesitating? Moiraine had the slightest notion of wrapping the man in flows of Air, but promptly dismissed it. She would grieve her gaidin should he fall in battle, but he had expressed very strongly to her that she was not to interfere in a fight of his again.

 

Moiraine's heart skipped a beat as she felt the reflection of Lan's pain as steel rent his brow. He cut him? In addition to his perfect battle track record, Lan had never so much as received a wound from a single opponent. This was a first for her, if not for him. Moiraine sent her own worry down the bond, but suddenly Lan's confidence was back again, that familiar feeling she'd feel from him whenever he beat his opponents. The battle was over. She'd have to chide him for insisting that he patrol alone. Sighing, Moiraine tended to her sore hip once more.

 

Moments later, the whistling of a warbler signaled Lan's return through the wards she had set. Another whistle came unexpectedly. Moiraine let her privacy weave vanish, just escaping the notice of a very pretty young woman who had evidently followed Lan back to camp. No, she was more than just pretty -- she was voluptuous, yet slim and graceful. Moiraine gathered all the height she could muster to regard the newcomer with trademark Aes Sedai poise. The woman's large brown eyes were wide with fright, perfectly situated on her smooth, enviably beautiful, bronzed Domani face. Long black hair framed her features and fell neatly onto the slopes of her somewhat exposed cleavage. Her dress was in tatters, as if cut by a sword...Moiraine's eyes widened a trifle. It couldn't be. This was the brigand? The Domani woman's plump lower lip trembled as she bit it. She was nervous, and rightfully so, having just assaulted an Aes Sedai's Warder, though she didn't know that.

 

"I-I'm..." she spread her skirts in a curtsy, allowing the tatters of her dress to fall and press her bosom precariously outward. Moiraine tried not to leer. "Forgive me, Aes Sedai. I was simply trying to prevent my horse from being stolen. She was my father's horse, you see, and I'm a long way from home, and if you could please show me mercy, Aes Sedai, please--"

 

"Enough, child," Moiraine said calmly, approaching the bowing woman. Light, how did she know? She placed her fingers gently beneath the woman's chin to lift her head, then found the answer to her question. When she and Lan made camp that evening, Moiraine had placed her Great Serpent ring back on her hand. There was something about this woman swordfighter. Was she Tower trained herself, or just very observant? Those dark pools seemed endless and pleading. Light, she was gorgeous. Moiraine felt her cheeks warm as she admired her. "Please, stand up. You have done nothing which warrants an apology." That earned a harrumph from Lan. Fool Warder should have let her come along. The woman straightened to reveal her full height, only a hand taller than Moiraine herself. "You'll have to excuse Master Andra. He would rather strike first then ask questions later in his service to protect me, isn't that so, Master Andra?" So she had been careless, but it was no reason to give away all her secrets.

 

Lan's face hardened, and frustration was tangible through the bond. The woman piped up again. "By your leave, Aes Sedai, Master Andra informed me that you might help me replace my damaged clothing. I seem to have torn it during the course of our, uh, scuffle." She shot a sidelong glance at Lan, who had taken to leaning against a nearby tree with that cat-like Warder's ease, ready to spring into action again should the woman turn hostile.

 

"I will," Moiraine began, "but first, I should ask where you learned the sword. Master Andra here is a blademaster, one of the finest in the North, and you managed to cut him. I am very impressed, Mistress..."

 

"Jefar," the woman replied perhaps a touch too quickly. "Marya Jefar, of Bandar Eban. My father was Aden Jefar, a minor merchant in arms for the Council of Merchants. He taught me the sword, Aes Sedai, ever since I was a girl. Forgive me, Aes Sedai, but how may I address you?"

 

"You can call me Alys Sedai, young Marya," Moiraine said coolly, emphasizing the woman's false name. "Come into my tent. I have a dress that I was going to have altered. Light willing it will fit you without too much trouble. Will you accept Healing for your hurts?"

 

She led her into the tent and cinched the flaps behind her, then embraced the True Source and Warded the tent for eavesdropping. Lan must have noticed the silence, because consternation was the only feeling in the bond for a time after that. "Now then, let's have a look at these scratches. You have done well to avoid Master Andra's blade. I suspect that had you been any lesser a swordswoman, you might be dead" Moiraine fingered the straps of Marya's dress, which prompted her to tug her dress down to her waist. Moiraine's breath caught as she took in the other woman's nude curves and lines. Her face felt flushed as she tried to focus on the Healing. She held her hands against the scratches on Marya's chest, causing her skin to pebble slightly. "Please try to relax. This may feel a bit cold." Moiraine's breath grew heavy with effort, but the necessary concentration seemed leagues away.

[New Style Fic:]

Try EP2. I think you will enjoy the fic as it develops. Several installments waiting to be transcribed from neurons to paper...

 

_______________________________________________________________________

 

EP2:

 

Levana's mount Star clomped heavily as she came to a canter near the secluded clearing in the woods, situated near a small brook that fed from the River Akuum further East. It was important to herself, as well as her horses, to keep well hydrated in case she needed to ride out in a hurry. Outside of Bandar Eban, village folk tended to create some fanciful stories about beasts the height of houses and fades that disappeared when they turned sideways and struck fear in the hearts of the hardest men. Levana herself had never seen a fade or a trolloc, nor any so-called Shadowspawn, and suspected they were mostly the fever dreams of battle-weary soldiers.

 

That was not to suggest, however, that she should not be prepared for any and all contingencies. Traveling alone, she would have to sleep lightly and keep an ear out for horse thieves, bandits, and any other brigands that might be about. Her father used to always say that brigands were like cockroaches: they always came out at night, and there were always more of them than you saw. She dismounted and tied Star to a low branch of the thick yew that grew near the brook.

 

The yew reminded her of the bow, which her father had taught her early on as a girl. He taught her how to pick out the best type of wood from the tree. "Half heartwood, half sapwood," she recited as she fingered the tree's branches. Her father was a dealer in arms, and sold to mercenaries and at times fulfilled minor contracts from conscript armies for the Council of Merchants. He squandered much of his earnings in taverns, gambling and drinking, but he had always loved to teach Levana the fine points of self-defense. She was heartbroken when he had died of a sleeping sickness shortly after her fourteenth naming day, which left her to live with an aunt in Solanje.

 

She ran away after a week living there. Aunt Freia not only scorned things like the sword and the bow, but she also tried to make Levana attend finishing school for Domani girls. She had hitched a ride on a Murandian merchant's wagon headed toward Falme. She had no money, only a few of her father's best pieces of the collection she had taken with her. The merchant, with his oily mustache and greedy smile, grabbed her by the arm and threatened to leave her on the road. "No one rides for free, you see." She had serviced his needs for three weeks before he caught sight of her father's heron mark blade -- her heron mark blade -- while making camp one night. "What's a pretty young girl doing with a thing like this?" he had asked as he tried to wrest it from her hands. She had tried telling him that she wouldn't sell -- she would demean herself and fulfill his sick pleasures before she let the man take anything of her father's, but he wouldn't hear it. He got as far as yanking the scabbard free before she split his collar with The Courtier Taps His Fan, bleeding him out. She panicked and left him and his wagon full of dyes and paints where they lay. She didn't want anything of his, and she certainly didn't want to be caught with any of his wares lest the Merchants' Guards suspect her of murder. They did find her, but they took her back to her aunt's instead of questioning her about a murder. Maybe his wagon and his skeleton were still out there somewhere?

 

Afraid of being apprehended, she did finally agree to finishing school. After becoming accustomed to the suggestive yet prim ways of Domani womanhood, she realized that everything seemed muted and dull. Nothing was quite so exhilarating as fighting, and nothing even as much as killing, she shamefully admitted to herself. There had been a time during school that she had participated in formal social gatherings, as part of her school's evaluation. The young men she had met were pretty enough, she guessed, but they were all painfully uninteresting. She thought with one mustached fellow how she might cut his throat should he decide to force his desires upon her. Her evaluation didn't go as well as her headmistresses had liked, and she had to repeat the social three times before she passed. She was not alone, and the headmistresses were beginning to suspect that Levana had something to do with the other girls' failures. They had, after all, been pillow friends, and Levana treated them to stories of her childhood somewhere south of propriety. She had embellished somewhat about running away from her aunt, but did not divulge the detail about how that little foray had ended. She hadn't told anyone.

 

Upon graduation, Levana had actually tried to conscript into the King's Guard of Arad Doman but was turned down because she was a woman, nevermind the fact that she bested all seven of the King's best pages with the practice sword. Trainees, she thought, hardly worthy of holding the sword. Despite her promise as a swordswoman, the Captain in charge of the selection told her it was not a job for women, no matter how good they were. "You'll end up with child, and then what?" he said. She never wanted to sell weapons, like her father; she'd rather use them. Her aunt had tried to get her interned with the Council of Merchants, as an apprentice to one of the liaisons to the Sea Folk. Domani women were supposed to be some of the best bargainers in the entire world, but Levana knew her fate lay elsewhere.

 

When she had found that wanted cutpurse in the city, she beat him senseless and nearly killed him. She remembered how the feeling of being in danger reminded her of the satisfaction she had felt when she sank her blade into that merchant long ago. The cutpurse had attempted to fight back with his long, skinny blade, but her bludgeon was too fast and met its mark too many times. She had dragged him by his collar onto a sedan chair and paid the fare to deliver him to the Hall of the Council for the reward money. Five gold crowns was enough to make any poor young city girl's eyes gleam. It was then she knew she had found her calling.

 

Dinner was smoked beef slivers over a bed of white rice. She had forgotten to pack her favorite lacquered sursa, and so ate it with her hands. As twilight fell, she cleaned up her campfire and buried the ashes, leaving some hot embers for the morning and for her mirrored lantern, which she left on for as long as long as the tallow would burn. She carried it with her back to the brook so that she could wash the grease from her hands. She would have to wash the smell of food off completely or her tent would attract wolves or bears. The wolves she might deter with a few well-placed arrows, but she was not equipped to discourage hungry bears.

 

Shining her lamp toward the babbling stream, she unfastened the feed bag from around Star's head. As she folded the empty canvas behind her belt, she noticed a flicker of light from behind a tree copse a hundred paces beyond the far bank of the stream. Squinting, Levana could see the outline of trees and the intermittent glow of fireflies among them. She was about to dismiss them when she noticed that the fireflies appeared...strange, somehow. It was as if they were behind a very hot fire which warped the air and distorted their image.

 

Scanning her surroundings with quick glances, Levana hurriedly extinguished her lamp and padded lightly back to her camp area. She prostrated herself behind some low bushes as she looped the heron-mark sword onto her belt. Other bounty hunters must be after the same boy, she remembered saying to herself. The sound of the brook would do well to conceal footsteps, and if there were brigands about, she would need to use her eyes and nose to detect them.

 

And then she saw it, approaching her mount from downwind, so as not to alert her to its presence. A floating head? The head was high off the ground, as high as her own horse's. In the faint moonlight, she could make out the angular features of a hard face. Below it she could see the same light-warping phenomenon she had seen with the fireflies. It was a man, and he was concealing himself, with some sort of fantastic camouflage she had never seen in her life. How is this accomplished, she thought as she gaped at the man reaching her mount. She supposed that someone the White Tower wanted this bad must have some well-funded hunters looking for him, too. A hand stuck out from underneath the nothingness to stroke Star's muzzle. Pondering the man's technology, a horrendous thought made her stomach turn. What if the man is channeling the One Power? She wouldn't even know if a woman was channeling, having been tested long ago by an Aes Sedai that came into Bandar Eban while Levana's mother was still alive. It had to be that. Star grunted contentedly as the man patted her nose. Just then it hit her; she knew what he was there for. He's going to steal her! Domani razors were prized horses, some said even more so than Tairen stock. Without a ride, Levana would be thirty-five leagues away from the nearest township, and on foot. Not going to happen, she said as she rose to a crouch, exposing an inch of steel from the scabbard.

 

She began to inch forward as silently as possible while keeping her eyes on the apparently floating head. Her father taught her how to stalk game with some success as a girl. With every soundless step the man's face became clearer, those hard planes and angles catching the moonlight just so. He appeared to have something around his head, a band of some sort, which held his hair from his eyes. A borderlander? thought Levana. She didn't have a plan, nor a hope against channeling. She'd have to strike first, and she'd have to strike hard enough to prevent a counterattack with the One Power. That is, if he's the one doing the channeling, she thought ruefully. She could not let him take Star.

 

Levana was within 7 paces of the man when all of a sudden her boot snapped a twig. The man moved inhumanly fast. Sparks flew as his blade fell on hers, which she had drawn in the nick of time and braced with her left wrist to prevent her skull from being split. The distortions in the air parted briefly to reveal the man's clothing. It was not of a cut or style that Levana recognized. His blade retreated for another strike. She thought she might track his blade as it caught the moonlight, but he hesitated as he loomed over her. It was the opening she needed. She broke into Parting the Silk to plunge her blade into the man's midsection. He parried and brought his blade high once more. Her Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose met his Low Wind Rising with a thunderous clang. He was a very tall man with a very long reach, but he was defending more than attacking. Perhaps he was not that skilled with the sword, Levana thought? Levana was not nearly as strong as the man, but she was fast, just as her father had trained her to be. Besides, a blade didn't need much force to kill, and the faster it moved, the better your chances of staying alive. Kicking dust with her left foot toward the man's face, she put her full power and speed behind Arc of the Moon, aimed right at his neck. Her sword whistled as it sliced through air. A heavy fist knocked Levana square in the center of the chest. She reeled backwards and slid through the dirt, sword still in hand. She thought she heard her opponent gasp.

 

Expertly she leaped back onto her feet, assuming Lion on the Hill to guard against a high attack. Not sensing one in the second it took to regain her breath, she unleashed The Cat Dances on the Wall, yelling out wordlessly with each slash. Her sword was a hurricane in her hands, a brutal storm of flashing steel hungry for blood. Sweat beads formed on her brow as she rushed towards the distorted figure with Striking the Spark, feeling her energy being sapped by her sword with each swing. Amazingly, the man hardly had his sword raised at all! He stood there with his sword in one hand as he dodged each of her strikes simply by swinging his head. Dodged! Once every few swings, when she felt like her sword might hit home, his blade came up to parry. As if that weren't enough, when she recovered to attack again, his form retreated into Folding the Fan, sheathing his sword in the scabbard over his shoulder. Levana couldn't help but gawk. What an insult! she thought. Did the man think he could take her without a sword to defend himself?

 

The clouds parted briefly to reveal the harvest moon. From this light Levana could see the man's hard, handsome face. He regarded her with cold, almost regal eyes, more fitting on a king than on a horse thief. She would peel the arrogance off his face with her blade! The clouds covered the moon once more to obscure the man. "Die, bandit!" she roared, running forward with all her might as she feigned Boar Rushes Down the Mountain. Levana turned her sword slightly as she finished with Thistledown Floats on the Whirlwind. She felt a slight resistance in her sword as it hit flesh. Success! she thought with an exhausted smile.

 

Abruptly she jolted forward with a yelp as the man reeled her in by her sword. The moonlight reappeared to reveal the man's face, marred by a tiny cut over his left eye which oozed blood onto his cheek. She looked down to her sword blade, only to feel the point of a long-bladed knife pressed not-so-gently against her chin. His left hand wore a steel-backed glove, wrapped firmly around her sword, razor sharp edge and all. Curse gauntlets, Levana thought with a hiss. Light, but the man was tall, head and shoulders taller than she was. She had never seen a man this tall in Arad Doman. Except for the pitiful gash she managed to make, he was very handsome, much more so up close. Levana wondered if she might convince him to allow her to live. If she could seduce him, perhaps she could get to Star and make a run for it. She didn't have a chance to work her charm before he spoke.

 

"Who taught you the sword, woman? You are good," the man's brow furrowed under that headband, a braided leather cord. "Light, I haven't had a fight like that in years. Who are you, and why were you trying to attack me?"

 

Levana's eyes bulged out as her mouth worked furiously for a response. She tried attacking him? All that came out was a flustered stutter. She shut her mouth, took a quick breath, and screamed "You attacked me you filthy vermin!" She let go of her sword to plant her right fist hard into his ribs.

 

His body was like a piece of iron. He grunted and grabbed her wrist in his stone grip, prodding the point of his knife a little harder into her chin. Levana winced as her pulled her closer to his face. "Answer me," he growled.

 

She looked into his eyes with a level gaze. "Marya Jefar. My father was Aden Jefar -- he taught me. Please, let me go. I can't lose my horse, but I can give other things. Please," she pulled his hand to her breast. "I can give you this, if you want it," she whispered softly into his ear, "I can give you more if your heart desires it. Let me show you--" he cut her off as he jerked his hand away. Was he blushing?

 

"Grab hold of yourself, woman, I wasn't trying to steal your horse!" He let her go completely as he adjusted his peculiar cloak that made one dizzy to regard up close. Light, he really was flustered! "I was just trying to secure the area for Moi...for my liege lady, Mistress Alys. I am Andra," his stern look reappeared. "My apologies for striking you, Mistress Jefar, I was simply trying to defend myself, you understand. I meant what I said earlier -- you are superb with that blade. My compliments to your father, he has made a fine blademistress," the tall man eyed her, or was he leering? Suddenly she realized her dress had taken a slash to the sleeve, leaving the tops of her breasts completely naked. With a gasp she seized the tatters and held them over her decolletage. "Please, join us by our camp," he continued, "my lady will have suitable replacements for your damaged clothing."

 

Levana slowly nodded and Andra turned around toward Star so that she could gather her things. Andra, and Mistress Alys, he said? Men used to convention made mistakes when confronted with an uncomfortable situation, she had been taught. It was a part of what made Domani women such excellent negotiators in trade. This man may have seen the worst kinds of brutality in battle, but he was still a man, perhaps with a weakness for feminine grace and beauty. He was hiding something from her. Carefully she pinned on her cloak and secured her sword fastenings. Andra was already leading Star across a shoal in the brook. "Are you coming?" he called from the night.

 

"Coming," she responded. He could have easily slaughtered her, but he didn't. Perhaps he was not a threat after all? She'd find out what Andra and this Mistress Alys were about, if she was worth her salt at all. If nothing else, it would be good to have traveling companions to help keep watch at night. They might be good for...other things, too, Levana mused with an impish grin.

[New Style Fic:]

My writing is usually pretty dark, so I decided I'd cater more to the MW Audience at large, whom, near as I can tell, love things of taboo romances, mussing up sheets, and sexual intrigue.

 

So without further ado, here is the first episode of just such a work. I will not write out the entirety -- my stuff is lengthy at times, but it's only because I have huge visions of the way things play out.

 

I'll just use this first one to gauge your interest. Just a heads-up, this is a prequel type fic -- takes place before the events of TEOTW, but after New Spring. Enjoy!

 

________________________________________________________________________

 

The rooms of the Echoing Zephyr were not generally quiet, as the soothing nature of the name suggested, but this room, at least, was comfortable. It was large, too, and conducive to meetings, or even parties, which Levana Nasif supposed she ended up having last night. Her breath still smelled of the brandy from last night, but she was much too seasoned at this type of thing to suffer from hangovers, unlike her guests, who still lay asleep next to her.

 

Mohad was a nobleman from a minor house who could not have seen more than twenty naming days, she guessed, and Seara was a thirty-something merchant of fine textiles who had made a tidy fortune in the past three years. She smiled at their impropriety; that woman was insatiable, and for a man so young and inexperienced he was surprisingly...deft. Suppressing a giggle, she rose out of the large bed and began rolling on a fresh pair of silk stockings. Seara noticed her absence in her sleep, groggily groping around until she found a pillow to throw her arm over. Mohad remained nude without coverlets upon his statuesque nudity and snored softly.

 

Levana fastened the last of her buttons on her green riding dress with divided skirts. There was business to attend to yet, and she couldn't let her morning be squandered by romping in the sheets, much as the idea appealed to her. They'd wake up to each other, she thought with a grin.

 

The innkeeper, Leota Hasan, catered her business to all types of clientele, both common and noble, which boded well for gathering information. This was one of very few places in Bandar Eban, or Arad Doman, for that matter, in which one might throw some dice with a street tough or sellsword in one room, and have an informal council meeting and fine wine and foods in another. Leota brooked no nonsense, and her cadre of shoulder-thumpers ran her ship tightly for her. Besides, the way she smiled at Levana, she might actually have a fancy for voluptuous, red-haired young women. Levana always returned her leers; you never knew what advantages might be gained from making a special friend. It had helped her achieve her objectives in the past, and last night, she forged two new alliances which she might call upon later. It was all in the name of keeping the purses full. Mostly.

 

The common room was not crowded, but a clamor in one of the corners of the room gave off the impression of a card game that had either started early or had not yet finished from last night. Hopping onto a barstool, Levana called for a mug of ewe's milk and a plate of scrambled hen's eggs. She would need energy after last night, and today she was going to see Sareta, who would no doubt have some menial task for her to perform. Levana wondered why she even took jobs from that insufferable woman. "Vital to the Gray Ajah," she said in a mocking voice, checking over her shoulders as she ate. You had to be careful where you mentioned Aes Sedai. Aes Sedai always attracted attention, and in Levana's business too much of that could lose you your pay, or even your life.

 

Leota appeared from a door behind the bar to regard her patrons with a falcon-like eye, which softened into a giving smile as she met Levana's eyes. Levana smiled back at her as she swallowed her food, daintily wiping her mouth and placing her folded hands on the bar in front of her. Leota was always dressed immaculately; silk was all she wore, but it was very finely cut with delicate lace trim nd embroidery across the full bodice. As Levana herself preferred, Leota's dress hugged her feminine curves and swells beautifully. She sauntered over to her with that quintessential Domani grace, the gentle, swaying motion all daughter of self-respecting Domani women were taught, and taught early. "Did you sleep well, sweetling? You three made quite a racket last night. The patrons next to you complained," she reached for Levana's hand, stroking it softly as she admired it. "I...might have to raise the rate for you."

 

Levana placed her other hand on top of Leota's, reciprocating the caress. "Aww, do you mean it?" She leaned in closer and gazed into the other woman's eyes. Levana lowered her voice to a whisper, "Surely I could make it up to you somehow?"

 

A half-smile crept onto Leota's face. "We'll see," she said simply. "For now, I have a message for you, left by a runner for Sareta. She wanted you there an hour ago. The boy is still here, eating in the kitchen. Poor thing, Sareta must never feed him. Shall I give word for her to wait?"

 

Levana winced. Sareta was a harpy, but she paid well, and in Levana's currency of choice, which was itself useful when Tar Valon gold crowns might be a liability. "No, I will go now. See if that boy wants the rest of this." She slid her plate forward as she fished a gold crown out of her purse. "And this is for last night. Please tell your guests I am sorry for the noise." She pressed the coin into Leota's supple hand.

 

"They already left. I'm keeping the change, Levana," Leota replied, dropping the coin in the purse on her belt. "Come back anytime," she cooed.

 

***

 

Levana drew rein when she saw the sign with the spool of thread on a blue background. Sareta was not a seamstress, though Levana had heard eyes-and-ears for the different Ajahs often performed their trades from behind the backdrops of such establishments. Supposedly peculiar flags were flown by the representatives of the eyes-and-ears to draw the attention of other Sisters as they rode through the various towns in Arad Doman. Levana herself didn't have to keep a lookout for the three triangles sewn into a quilt patch hung from a window. She had taken many jobs from Sareta before, and while she enjoyed the wages, she dreaded the jobs before she even heard them. They weren't difficult, they just usually ended up fruitless. Sareta also seemed to think that Levana never slept, ever. The last job she took involved spying on a member of the Council for four days straight. No clear objectives, just report his activities. It's vital to the diplomatic success of the Gray Ajah, she mocked.

 

Ducking into the side entrance of the seamstress' shop, Levana gave a small start when she saw the short, rotund woman before her with her fists on her hips. Sareta had an attractive face, but her roundness should never have been stuffed into a Domani dress. It bordered on travesty, Levana thought ruefully. The Aes Sedai paid her even better, she thought as she grinned to herself, if her waist was any proof of that. Sareta tapped a small, slippered foot on the stained wood floor. "You were supposed to be here an hour ago."

 

"I had an issue to attend to at the Zephyr. A young boy desperately needed help finding his mother, and then I decided to pay for his breakfast, and --"

 

"Enough of your lies, woman. Close your mouth and listen." Levana could never get anything past Sareta. She could tell if the Dark One himself was lying to her. "I have a job for you. This one comes from up on high -- a Sitter of the Gray Ajah in the White Tower. It pays six thousand gold crowns."

 

Six thousand gold crowns? Levana tried not to let her eyes bulge out of her skull. This was ten times more than any job she had received from Sareta in the two years she had known her. She'd spy on Council members for that much money. Light! She'd strip to her shift and beg for the lewd attentions of ruffians, for six thousand gold. "Er...uh...of course, I accept. What is the job?"

 

"As always, you must swear on the Light and your hope of rebirth and salvation that you will keep this knowledge to yourself. What you are about to hear is sealed to the Tower and the representatives of the Tower, and by accepting payment you yourself are by proxy a Tower representative." Levana swore the oath, eager to find out what was so important that a small fortune would be paid. "You are to find a boy. A particular boy, who should have seen no more than about fifteen naming days till now." Sareta went on about what information she knew about this golden child. Finally, Levana would actually be employed the way she was meant to work, the way she was used to working. Thief-takers were a legendary and unique group of men, she was told, and she agreed. But being a woman meant she could employ all manner of...other techniques...that men could not possibly perform. She would find this boy and bring him to Sareta in a burlap sack. Her vision was tinged with gilt.

 

"One last vital piece of information, Levana," Sareta said in a low voice. "The boy you are looking for was born on the slopes of Dragonmount. This should narrow down your search."

 

Dragonmount? Where Lews Therin had killed himself? Levana wasn't sure about all the stories and prophecies. She didn't hardly believe in the Dark One, even though she never worked up the nerve to call out his name. It didn't make any difference. She could find this boy, and afterward she would spend a year in Leota's inn drinking, feasting, and rolling around between the bedsheets, preferably with a friend or two.

 

Levana carefully placed her promissory notes of three thousand gold crowns into her saddle bags and headed East. She wondered if anyone else might be on the same mission as she was. At that price, it was an inevitability. She would have to be wary of other bounty hunters looking to eliminate their competition. She reached down to the pommel of her sword. The scabbard lashed to her horse held the blade her father gave her before his death. Inlaid in the finely wrapped grip lay the gilded impression of a heron. His arms business died shortly after he did, but while it was operating she had learned a thing or two about the sword and bow, sometimes from his customers. She now gripped the pommel of the blade he said she was worthy of wielding, even if she thought she still needed few more years yet to practice it. "Every little bit helps," she mused as she brought her dun mare up to a gallop.

[Hi]

Hello Jaime.

 

I see you've hit the fanfic section already. *off to read*

[Prompt 1: The Last Battle]

234 words:

 

Gnarled, blue-white bolts of lightning streaked upward with a resonating roar, crashing into the light-swallowing black clouds of the Blight's infernal sky. A fiery, rotating vortex loomed in the distance over Shayol Ghul and radiated its putrescent glow upon the decayed, fetid land. The howls of darkhounds and the screams of jumara filled the air in a discordant crescendo, foretelling the doom of men.

 

Darkness emanated from Shaidar Haran's promontory vantage, his black cloak motionless as death, even amid the foul winds that blew toward the bottleneck called Tarwin's Gap. From the South he surveyed the men on horseback as they rode insolently into the hostile landscape. A battalion of at least two thousand men wearing the hadori were drawing their horses ever inward, as though they did not even notice the Blight among them. They were Bordermen to the last man, thought Shaidar Haran, but it was the tall man at their head with eyes like burnished blue steel who would be his personal quarry.

 

Bloodless lips peeled back to reveal a rictus sneer. These men would be riding directly into their own deaths. The smile on his face widened as he considered the tempers these men's souls would provide the shadow blades, not to mention pleasure of killing them. "Attack." The word sounded like the crumbling of rotted, dried leaves. One hundred thousand trollocs and myrddraal moved swiftly to obey his command.

["Mosk and Merk"]

The world was in shambles. The global economy was done for. The events that had transpired in the past few days would give rise to a new world order. Right now, the remaining governments of the world, those that had objected to the terms of mutually-assured destruction, were either destroyed themselves or left behind to deal with the literal and figurative fallout. This was the unforgivable reality in the eyes of Jonas Saevarsson. Many of his colleagues had volunteered to help in America, some in France, others in the UK, but he decided he would stay in Iceland. He had come close to dying more times than even he felt at ease with; he often wondered how many lives he had left, and surely he would not sacrifice them for the sins of evil men.

 

Pinning on his star, he strolled down the steps out of his flat building and toward his car. The air was a little brisk and chilly, perhaps a bit too much for this time of year, but certainly not anything he wasn't used to. Most people probably would not have noticed a difference in the temperature, but the nature of Saevarsson's work taught him long ago to notice even the most infinitesimal of details. It was this attention to nuances and tiny irregularities that earned him the position he toiled over, but certainly it had helped to put a few undesirables behind bars.

 

The morning was a little too quiet, now that he thought about it. News of the nuclear holocaust kept everyone indoors. The media was good at reporting the NATO fallout advisories in effect for the areas surrounding the island, but Saevarsson knew it was more fearmongering than anything else. He figured the people must be made to be afraid, while those with power would be moving to seize what little of the world remained non-irradiated. He had dreams about possessing this sort of power. Yes, his time would come very soon. He smiled for a brief moment then surveyed the silence of the morning before opening the door to his car.

 

He focused his mind on his fears, doubts, and misgivings, and imagined they were being fed into a pit of magma. He would feed the pit the extraneous fodder of his mind, until there was only the pit, and darkness. He had seen such things before as a young man near Eyjafjallajokull, during a time when the big volcano had been active, spewing red hot liquid rock along the icy slopes. It was there that he had first imagined all parts of him that made him weak -- everything in his mind that kept him from attaining power -- were being fed into the fiery molten rock. He still remembered how sweet it had felt, the first time. He had returned each year to stand at its foothills and take time to hone his craft. It had been kept a secret for nearly 15 years. Now, with the world in chaos, could the need for secrecy be obsolete?

 

When his mind held only the fiery chasm, it was almost as if he hovered above the chasm -- he lingered among it. Hellfire filled his veins and frosty Icelandic air pebbled his skin. He was alive. He could notice the tiniest of clues, the innuendo in the voices of suspects, the guilt on their faces. He could see, hear, and feel everything. It was bliss, and it was torment to let it go. He drank in as much of the feeling as he could hold, but was careful to not get lost in it. Once he had almost done that, almost lost consciousness while holding the greatness of this meditation, and to his shock and amazement it seemed to strike at him, sending him reeling about in a vain attempt to regain balance and focus in his mind. The feeling was very unpleasant. Saevarsson considered it a near-death experience.

 

With his heightened eyesight, he scanned his surroundings, only to find that the coast really was clear, except for an old, hunchbacked man walking with a cane about 100 paces down the sidewalk, next to which his car was parked. The man was not a regular vagrant -- he would have easily noticed and remembered a hunchback in the past. The standing order was to bring vagrants to the nearest shelter or soup kitchen if they complied amicably. If not, then the order was simply to arrest them. At least, it was when Saevarsson was a patrol cop. As the superintendent of the Logreglan Forensic Investigation Division, he normally wasn't bothered with the duties of the men on the beat. Still, he was on his way to work. It couldn't hurt to give the old guy a lift.

 

He jumped in his car and rolled the short distance to where the old man was ambling along. Rolling down his passenger, he called out to him, "Please hop in, sir. I'll take you to some hot food." The man continued walking, ignoring his offer and rounding a corner into an alley between two apartment buildings. Saevarsson supposed if he was frightened of the police, he would run, though his back did make it difficult to do such things. Still, something didn't seem right, here. The man's gait seemed a little bouncy for someone in his condition. He decided he should get out and perform the street interview.

 

Throwing the car into park and turning on the overheads elicited an immediate reaction in the old man. His back straightened and he bolted on legs like a gazelle's, still hauling the black cane in his right hand as he ran. Immediately Saevarsson sprung into action, shouting "Halt!" as he gave chase down the alleyway.

 

The cowl of the man's "hoody" jacket had obscured the youthfulness of his face, and the gloves he wore concealed the lack of wrinkles. Even with his meditation, he had been made by this crook. He was fast, but Saevarsson was no slouch and could run two marathons before pouncing on a criminal to subdue him. He followed him over a six foot chain link fence. The runner's leg had caught a sharp spot on the fence top and stumbled him as he landed on the ground. It was the opportunity Saevarsson needed to close the distance. He leaped and caught the crook by the neck and shoulder.

 

A metallic snick was all the warning Saevarsson had before a wicked twelve-inch blade came swinging into his midsection. The cane had concealed the shiny steel ingeniously, and the crook moved like a viper with it. Saevarsson threw himself back instinctively, earning himself a shallow slash in the abdomen which tore his shirt. This close, drawing his Glock would lose him a precious half-second, and surely get him a skewered belly. The crook's eyes darted wildly as he snarled and lunged, each time barely failing to deliver a fatal wound. Saevarsson's brow was hot and wetness oozed from over his left eye, clouding his vision with a field of red. He had been backed up against the chain link fence. It would be over soon. To add a little insult to his mounting injuries, he felt an unseen hand clawing for the Glock on his side. Tunnel vision in the heat of the struggle had caused him to ignore the crook's confederates. Twisting his mouth in an awful grin, the crook leaped forward for the coup de grace. Saevarsson saw him telegraph his thrust in slow motion. With nothing left to gain, he imagined the magma pit.

 

Tracers of the falling blade entered his vision, then came to an abrupt stop an inch from his chest. The crook's maniacal toothy smile turned down in a snarl as he used both hands to try to force the blade down. Saevarsson heaved a quick sigh as he threw his hand out. He could see the air, somehow, and used his hand as a focus to direct it violently forward, sending the criminal sprawling. Just as quickly he felt a weight lifted from his side. Turning his head quickly to the right he saw a greasy, snaggle-toothed skinny man with a faded green jacket jacking the slide of his black handgun. An instant flash of the molten rock in his mind manifested itself in reality as he thrust his hand out again. A blinding prominence of flame engulfed the greasy man's outstretched arm that held Saevarsson's gun. The man produced a guttural scream, collapsing him to the ground as he attempted to cradle his immolated limb. The fire had dissolved his flesh, leaving cauterized black arm bones dangling from the man's shoulder. He lost consciousness immediately, leaving Saevarsson to deal with the fake hunchback he left on the ground.

 

Rather than engaging him, however, the man bolted again, but Saevarsson had no intention of giving chase. It was criminals like these -- degenerate thieves and con artists that made the world evil. Men like these were everywhere. Some of them wore suits and held public office.

 

The crook was fast approaching the next chain link fence down the alleyway. As he ran, Saevarsson was startled by a man dropping down over the fence beside him. He did not recognize his face; he must have been a rookie officer on the beat. A quick nod from the man and a barked "Sir!" gave him the confirmation. The rookie looked over to his right to regard the dying vagrant. "My God, what the hell happened to him? Sir?" He supposed the man was confused to find Saevarsson staring at a running criminal with a badly burned suspect basically dead on the floor. Saevarsson spared him a glance. The runner had reached the fence.

 

Some of these men have red phones and launch missiles to kill innocent people.

 

Pointing to the man with an outstretched hand, Saevarsson briefly felt the air crackle around him. The hair on his hand stood on end, and an arrow-straight bolt of lightning streaked down

rom the cloudless sky to strike the chain link fence in the distance. The crook had only made it halfway up as he froze, then fell like a wet blanket being cut from a line of laundry. Wisps of smoke rose from his lifeless corpse for a quick moment before being squelched away by a breeze.

 

"How did you...why you..." The rookie had a conflicted look on his face. Instinctively his hand went to his sidearm. Saevarsson cocked his head curiously at the man. There was a thrill to doling out justice. Who could stop him, now? The world was distracted with all-out war, and all that needed to be done was for those with power to step forth and take it.

 

"There's no room left in the world for evil men, Johansson. There must be swift retribution for crimes. The days of democracy are dead."

 

"You bastard!" Johansson drew his pistol, but rookies were predictably slow and unpracticed with their sidearms. Saevarsson easily parried with his left hand as he placed the fingertips of his right hand on the other man's face.

 

"You are either with me, or against me," Saevarsson told Johansson as he began to convulse in response to the violent electrical energy surging through his body. Now they would experience his power. The time for hiding in the shadows had finally come to an end. Those without power would bend a meek neck to those who held it, and Jonas Saevarsson could finally pursue his dreams without wasting his life for a puny paycheck and a thankless, impotent title. It wasn't all bad, he thought. He could make sure these three undesirables went missing. Who was going to undermine the Superintendent of Forensic Investigation, anyway? He shook his head as he strengthened his hold on his special meditation.

 

"No," he thought, policing up the evidence of the altercation in the alleyway with streams of air. "Who dares to defy the god of the new world?"

["Mosk and Merk"]

A chilly Northern wind blew over the busy alleyway where Hiro Shinseki made his trade. The wind, uncharacteristic for this time of year, knocked over newspapers and magazines, and it rattled and swung the signs of businesses established along this normally busy thoroughfare. Butchers, florists, purveyors of literature, practitioners of Eastern medicine and holistic healing could be found here, all of them rendering services or selling goods out of wooden kiosks and pagodas, competing for the ever essential yet increasingly rare yen. Everyone felt the sting of recession, even the yakuza, who had resorted to more public fundraising and parading in the recent days. The buzz nowadays was not of Japan, but of the Americans.

 

Some people called it come-uppance. Others called it justice for an evil long past. Not that Hiro minded, except that it made people paranoid, and kept them in their houses. That, and visiting Western style hospitals, which really irked him. The copy of the Nagasaki Shimbun on Hiro's counter flapped in the breeze for a while and worked loose from beneath the flask which had been functioning as a paperweight. Hiro had read it already. The headline in big bolt lettering read "America Dissolves Government." He shook his head ruefully. Back to the frontier days for the West, he thought wryly. Even the Japanese government still stood after those atrocious events so many years ago, though in America's defense, they had received everything Hiro's countrymen did some twenty-odd times over. That country was finished. Who among them could come out alive, after all that?

 

Hiro shook his head again. He almost wished he didn't know the answer to that question.

 

An elderly woman came into view from the North end of the alleyway. Hawkers of fresh fish, flowers, and herbs cried their wares as she walked past. She was one of a handful of patrons to the marketplace; most had been kept in by the unusual July cold if not the bad tidings of the present day. She nodded graciously to the hawkers as she passed, but Hiro knew she was coming to see him. She was a regular to his business. She arrived at Hiro's stand and greeted him with a warm smile as she loosened her headscarf. "Hello, Shinseki-sensei. I wonder if you might help me with my back again. It seems to have tightened up over the last week."

 

Hiro smirked as he regarded her condition. For 76 years old, the woman was like a steel spring, though older people tended to injure themselves more frequently. Hiro felt like he should know this, considering his own age, though no one ever guessed. He looked...young for his age. That was a shameful understatement, but the reality was that no one was really left that could verify Hiro Shinseki's true age. None remained who could tell his true name, either, though the days of worrying about that were long gone. "Come in and let me look at you, Mrs. Yamamoto. And you don't need to address me so -- you know I am not a doctor. Didn't I tell you that you needed to take it easy?"

 

"I know," Mrs. Yamamoto began, head bowed deferentially, "but I come away from here feeling so energized. I know I must overwork myself, and I promise I will be better about it. I must have pulled something moving some furniture in my granddaughter's apartment. She will be starting University, you see." Hiro listened as he worked. The pleasant, almost musical sound of the elderly lady's voice reminded him of his own mother. She had not survived long after the bomb fell so long ago. Hiro buried her himself, along with the two sisters he managed to find before the civilian patrols took him to the hospital. Enough of that, he thought. For this, he needed calm. He listened to Mrs. Yamamoto's voice and ran through the exercise.

 

One of the tenets of Zen Buddhism was to find harmony between body and soul, and to purge the soul of bodily fear and doubt one had to achieve a trance-like sort of concentration. Hiro had seen this exercise performed thousands of times since he was a young boy, but Hiro knew his concentration was supreme, perhaps even the best in all of Japan. He had confidence in his abilities because they worked, and in another time it might have made him a lot of money, but he was not interested in that. He liked helping people, and if it meant that he stayed off the grid, so much the better. He held out his hands over the old woman's back and began to knead her muscles softly.

 

In this state of concentration, Hiro was much more aware of his surroundings. He could see every grain of wood on his waxed countertop. He could smell each distinct odor from the florist's shop next to his, hear all the fine pitches and tunes of the voices in the marketplace. His body and soul were one. He would impart a soothing touch and transfer his harmony into his patient. Slowly and methodically he worked his fingers across the surface of her back.

 

Five minutes passed, and Hiro's brow beaded with sweat. He sensed a state of equilibrium, a sort of homeostasis within the woman. No. Not just with Mrs. Yamamoto. It was almost as if he could tell when his work was complete. The air seemed to radiate contentment. He broke his concentration to address the old lady. "All done, Mrs. Yamamoto." He felt empty somehow, as if he lost something dear to him. He thought once more about his mother.

 

The old woman held out her arms and raised up on tiptoes as she stretched. "Miraculous! I knew you'd make me feel better. And to think, my granddaughter thought I should visit a chiropractor! Thank you so much, Shinseki-sensei. How much was it, again?"

 

"It's on the house, as long as you can remember that 'Shinseki-san' is okay," Hiro said with a chuckle. Mrs. Yamamoto gasped and tried to say that she could never do a thing like that, but he held her hand warmly and closed her fist over her yen gently. She smiled, bowed, and bounded away, making her way to a hibachi nearby. Clients were always hungry after being treated, and the more intense the work, the hungrier they were. Appetite was a good sign; it meant the body was healing itself.

 

Hiro didn't get any more clients that evening. He closed shop two hours after dark, as usual, bringing his herbs and poultices into his apartment that lay adjacent to his kiosk. Turning on his radio, he prepared himself for sleep. The news was like a parrot, it always said the same thing over and over again. Still, it was hard to believe. America was finished, and Russia might soon follow.

 

He adjusted the dial on the radio randomly as he set it back down on his shelf. He reached over to flip the switch when his ears perked up at a different news report.

 

...reporting that some accounts of radiation sickness are producing acute cancers in the bodies of some victims of the bombings. Already twenty reports have been submitted by American doctors purporting a swift and baffling remission in 100% of these cases, with patients exhibiting bizarre behaviors ranging from--

 

Hiro turned the radio off. There would be more, he thought as he rolled out his mattress onto the floor. Not for long would he be the best hedge doctor in all the world. He smiled and stuck his arm out to find the switch on the floor lamp's cord. The West was not dead -- the West would be reborn, and a new era of men would give rise to marvelous medical wonders. Hiro's head swimmed as he considered the possibilities. War destroyed men, but somehow it shaped societies, allowed opportunities for succession, just as it did for him. Two weeks from now would be August 9th. The one hundred and fifty-seventh anniversary of the bombing of Nagasaki. Hiro found the switch and turned off the lamp. He smiled up at the ceiling as he laid in his bed. Tomorrow would be an exciting day.

["Mosk and Merk"]

Thank you, Sam!

 

I've another that will hopefully clinch it.

 

One always wonders what makes "The Ages" in the WOT.

 

The 3rd age is said to have begun with the release of the DO or the War of Power, i forget which.

 

The 2nd age presumably began when channeling was discovered, leading into the Age of Legends.

 

The 1st age is our current day, as I understood it.

 

Stay tuned for more...

["Mosk and Merk"]

Karen Sanders woke up to a brilliant cascade of pain which made it difficult to see where she was. It was dark, yet slivers of light shone through something that pinned her to the ground. Where am I? How long have I been here? She gritted her teeth and attempted to push herself upward, though the pain made her stop resisting the load on her body. She scratched the object with an adjacent hand. Wood?

 

Karen GO NOW! Memories that seemed someone else's flashed through her consciousness as she attempted to squirm out from under the timbers. A flash of light came to her mind. Like the typical Colorado Springs sunrise, only thousands of times more luminous. She had trouble seeing out of her right eye, she realized.

 

The roof groaned for a moment and then imploded down on top of her. No, that was a dream. Wasn't it?

 

Finally she worked her hand free from under a piece of something. It looked familiar somehow. Strange, she thought. Karen's wall also had the same floral pattern before...

 

Before it happened.

 

As the pain began to subside from her arm, she figured it must not be broken too badly. She could use it to move the other things from her body. If she could only turn her head to see what was going on. Something was damp on the back of her head. Was she bleeding? She wouldn't be surprised.

 

At last she could perceive something moist sitting on top of her head, just outside her field of vision. God, this hurts! Her pulse pounded in her head, and the lights continued to flicker through the gaps in the timbers on top of her. She could vaguely make out noises that sounded to her like voices. Voices and possibly sirens? Something had gone terribly wrong.

 

Squirming her head had gotten the moist object from her head down in front of her face where she could almost see it in the low light. It was a lock of hair, damp with a dark liquid that smelled of rust. Long, curly hair. It reminded her of her mother.

 

Oh, God! Mom! Karen worked her free elbow and contacted a mass which sat atop her, on her back. It was supple, yet rigid against her arm. Karen felt herself gag and dry heaved onto the ground in front of her face. She had to get out of here.

 

What had happened? What sort of monsters could have done this? Was it terrorists? Karen's brother had died two years ago in Afghanistan. She remembered bringing his medals to his casket before they lowered him into the ground. She began to wail.

 

***

 

George Hathaway was surveying the damage done to the neighborhood in his last good pickup truck. Living in the mountains afforded him the ability to partake in his hobbies without too much attention attracted. He didn't mind being outcast. It was a part of him, he thought, and prompted him to move out of the city and into Colorado in the first place.

 

George thought now how silly it all was. He'd spent years building up respectable "preps," as people in the community called them. People used to call him a Chicken Little, always talking about repentance and getting right with God, and the end being near and never trust the government. Another religious right-wing zealot, they called him. Well, they were half right, he guessed. George was never one to push his religion onto others. So he didn't agree with abortion and thought drugs were bad -- he never was one to discuss that with anyone. But he did not trust the government, and knew this day would come. He was right. A part of him felt like he should laugh out loud. Where were his detractors now? Where?

 

But he could not. The scenes in front of him were sobering and awful. Five years worth of stockpiled food, clean water, toilet paper, MOPP "hazmat" gear, and enough guns and ammunition to outfit a platoon of soldiers. All the weight was a liability more than a help. He could not bug out, as he had no means to transport it all. He had no intel, besides. The outside world could be worse off, for all he knew. It had been 4 days since the explosion. Fortunately his house sat behind a natural granite barrier, and aside from a small fire on the roof, his property was untouched, though he had been afraid of coming outside. He finally worked up the nerve yesterday, and luckily he was not the worse for wear. The MOPP gear would keep him safe from radiation, for a time, at least.

 

He came to a pile of rubble that had once been the home of one of his neighborhood detractors. The paint on the mailbox had been seared away by the brilliant radiation. He was surprised to even find it still standing. For a man so handy with hammer and nails, he figured the likes of Rob Sanders would have been a supporter of his cause. Unfortunately, the blast had caused his house to collapse. Despite his jesting, Rob was a good man, who stood firmly for what he believed in, even if he did vote for the other guy. George bit his tongue at that last thought. It didn't matter anymore. Would left or right matter ever again?

 

He stopped his truck and checked his suit. A roll of duct tape sealed up a gap he found near his neck. He stepped out to regard the demolished house. "ROB!" George waited. There was no answer. The sounds of distant ambulance sirens howled in the distance.

 

George sat on the sidewalk in front of the Sanders place. A piece of burnished metal sat in the grass nearby. He leaned over to pick up the familiar brass shape. A door knocker, he guessed. He could barely make out the Sanders name inscribed on the metal through the thick, slightly fogged up lenses of his mask.

 

The sound of his own breathing was most obvious with the filters on his mask, but he thought he heard a whimper. Was it coming from the house? He stood back up and cleared his throat. "ROB!" It sounded like crying!

 

George began tossing away fragments of sheet rock and pine joists, scrambling to find the source of the noise. It did not sound like Rob, but it could have been his wife or daughter. Oh, that poor kid, he thought. She would be about 16 years old? "Where are you?" he shouted, still heaving rubble from the pile that was once a house and tossing it aimlessly into the yard.

 

"I...I'm here!" The voice said weakly. "Who's there?" The voice was immature, like a young girl's. It must have been Rob's daughter, Karen.

 

"Karen? It's George Hathaway! I'm going to get you out, sweetie, just hang on!"

 

"Mom! Oh my God my Mom! Mr. Hathaway please get my mom!"

 

George disregarded the tears in his gloves as he worked to get the roof beams cleared from over Karen's voice. As he worked, he came to a section which was stained with the sickly dark red and black of dried blood. He pulled the joist hard, then immediately looked away so as not to sick up in his mask.

 

It was Mrs. Sanders. Her body had been mangled by the collapse of the house. Locks of her curly blonde hair caught what little of the daylight remained.

 

"Hurry, Mr. Hathaway, please! You have to get my mom!"

 

"Sweetie...my God...your mother, she's...she's gone, sweetie."

 

Silence came from beneath the rubble for an instant. Then he heard the soft, muted cries. George stopped his frantic work, stunned by the sobering scene. He suddenly realized how futile this was. The child was exposed, and without food or water for days, stuck underneath a dead loved one amid this? Then again, how in the world had she survived?

 

"I'M GOING TO GET THEM!" George gave a start at the change of tone in Karen's voice. She was still sobbing, but screaming furiously. "I will never forgive! I will never forgive this!"

 

George saw a flash of light blind his vision momentarily as a timber smacked him in the forehead. He shook his head, dazed to find himself flat on his rear and several yards away from where he once stood. He felt a trickle of blood run down from his scalp inside his mask. Straining his vision through the fogged up lenses, he saw a silhouette of a young woman standing atop the rubble pile, hands in fists by her side as she slowly limped down from her precarious perch. Bits of sheet rock, shingles, and tattered pieces of two-by-four rained down from the sky as she crept towards him.

 

Karen was bloodied from head to toe, with a look on her blood-streamed face that showed a determination more fierce than any George had ever seen. It was almost frightening. No, this girl has me plumb terrified, he thought. What had she done?

 

Suddenly, something hugged him around his waist and hoisted him from the ground. George yelped and threw an elbow behind him, hoping to connect with his assailant...but there was nobody there. George stared bug-eyed at the invisible ring which wrinkled his suit and kept him floating in the air. Impossible!

 

He gave a start as he turned in his invisible restraints. His body was being held horizontally, with his belly toward the ground. George yelped, trying uselessly to wrench himself free. A hand reached under his chin and brought his masked face toward Karen's.

 

"Thank you, George," her voice was ice, "I can walk, but just barely. Will you help me find my Dad, too, so we can bury them?" George was trembling. It was all he could do to keep from screaming out for help. "I hate to burden you further, but do you have any food or water? I am so thirsty, and I'm starving. Actually, I wonder if I might ask to stay at your place for a while?" The determined look wavered for a bit, and those big, childlike eyes returned for the briefest of moments. George crashed to the ground, gritting his teeth as the wind was knocked from his lungs.

 

Karen slumped down onto the scorched earth, sobbing into her folded arms. George stared at her for a while, then placed his arm around her slight shoulders. What had she done?

 

"Come on to the truck, sweetie," George said, picking himself up and rising to his feet. "I have a blanket for you in there. We'll need to hose you down, too, at some point." He had heard of humans doing superhuman things in times of great stress, but how could this be? Was he sick from radiation? Was he imagining things? He still felt a little punch drunk from the blow to his head. Surely he was just loopy. This poor girl needed help, and George would see to it that she was brought back up to speed. Maybe there was still a hospital around for the her more serious hurts? Though she seemed to have a slight limp, he wondered about the "barely able to walk" bit. She walked slowly, but she seemed surprisingly spry after being buried under a house for four days. He would find her folks and bury them, too.

 

The walk back to the truck was a mere hundred yards, but the uncomfortable silence made it seem like a thousand. "I'm sorry," Karen said after a time. "I don't know how...that...happened. I promise I'll never do it again." Her voice sounded apprehensive.

 

George swallowed hard. It was real. It happened. A long silence fell between them as he wrapped her in a heavy woolen blanket from the truck's box. Finally he said, "Hell, sweetheart. Maybe you'll get your chance." George placed Karen carefully into the passenger seat, then hopped into the driver's seat to start the engine. "Maybe we can get the bastards who did this to us." They both smiled weakly as they drove off into the twilight.

["Mosk and Merk"]

Thanks! Stay tuned for the "Merk" side of the fic.

["Mosk and Merk"]

***

 

Anatoly's eyes seemed heavy as he lifted his arm to his face to rub them. That is, he tried to lift his arm. Squinting and working his eyelids against the bright light, he made out the large leather restraint which held his wrist to an anchor somewhere on the underside of the bed.

 

A blunt pain radiated from the back of his head. Had he been hit? He seemed to remember telling the doctors that they would be leaving. He had to brush away the doctors insisting that he remain in bed. Surely they had use for the bed for other, sicker people. The hospital seemed abuzz with new cases of radiation sickness, and they needed every bed they could get.

 

Brushed aside? No! He...moved...those doctors, somehow. He tried to remember what happened, but everything was blurry. "Damn this aching head," he thought. Looking around the room, he could see his mother sitting on a chair, looking worried as usual. She looked very young for her age, he thought, if not for the constant look of worry that seemed to plague her as of late. Granted, most people looked worried these days. It still came as a great shock that their entire world had been turned on its side about two weeks ago, but the apocalypse was nothing like in the movies. It was cold and uninteresting, and food was hard to come by. Food. Anatoly realized just how hungry he was. He felt a rumbling pit in his stomach.

 

Nearby the older Doctor -- Simonov, was it? -- was working his mouth from behind his mask. He was talking to a man in uniform near the foot of the bed, but he could not make out their words. Anatoly guessed that was the man who hit him. When did that happen?

 

A frightened Dr. Danilov was beside him to his left, adjusting the drip on a bag of fluid connected to a tube in his arm. She appeared nervous and avoided eye contact with Anatoly. He looked back at Dr. Simonov, who was addressing another bespectacled man in the room. He was tall with dark features, wearing an exquisite suit. The scope on his head named him a surgeon of some kind, he surmised.

 

"Unprecedented recovery..." Anatoly managed to make out. He supposed there was something in the drip in his arm that made his ears not work. "...some kind of natural resistance..." He strained to hear the rest, but could not see Dr. Simonov's lips to try to read them. The man in the suit was closer, and wore no mask.

 

"We have heard reports of another case like this in Odessa. A young girl. A curious case, some nonsense about spontaneous combustion. At any rate, she was reportedly healthy before the fire broke out."

 

"...manifestations of recovery...tumescent growths..." Dr. Simonov continued. Why wouldn't Anatoly's ears work? He felt tired.

 

"Yes, it appears their bodies work past the neoplasms. We need to keep this young man and others like him around for observation and analysis. The oncological implications are...promising."

 

***

 

The light of the evening sunset fell on Vasily Berman's desk from the tall window in his office. Odessa General Hospital was one of the busiest in all of the Ukraine, and as administrator, it was his job to make sure that all staff were working where they should, that all records were kept accurately and confidentially, and that patients were seen to in an orderly and professional manner. His duties, however, were becoming increasingly difficult to perform; not for the reason of the nuclear holocaust that plagued the North, and not even for the fact that he was a lot younger than the majority of his colleagues. What made his work hard was the...aberrant... nature of symptoms shown by some of the exposed patients. It was gathering attention, and he did not know for how much longer he could keep his staff's lips sealed.

 

He put on his lab coat and headlamp and headed out of the office and into the top floor patients' quarters. Oncology and radiology were Dr. Berman's forte, and even as hospital administrator, he had a fondness for the afflicted patients and still rendered services himself. Cancer was a very personal disease, to him, as he himself had been a survivor of it not too many years prior.

 

A large, gruff man in scrubs approached him and lowered his face mask to reveal a bandage across his cheek. Berman knew there were stitches underneath that bandage. "Dr. Berman, I have some news regarding the Koslova girl," he said in a hushed voice. Maria Koslova was the topic of much buzz around the hospital of late.

 

"Dmitri, didn't I instruct you to place that patient in the psych wing?" Dr. Berman's interest was oncology, not diseases of the mind. Furthermore he was not as qualified as other members of his staff to deal with such a girl. A pyromaniac!

 

Though, there was the issue of her purported radiation exposure. When she was brought in three days ago, her mother had said she thought she was affected by the fallout of the blast two weeks ago, though she showed no symptoms for 10 days. According to the admitting doctors, she had come in with flu-like symptoms, not exactly inconsistent with radiation sickness, but Dr. Berman was beginning to wonder just how many people in Odessa were really affected by fallout. Didn't the Ministry of Defense reports say that the prevailing winds skipped the South?

 

The doctors examined her for radiation sickness yesterday, just before the incident with the fire. They found nothing outside of the normal traces of radioactive substances about her person, nor did she show the other classic pathologies associated with a high dose of radiation. All Dr. Berman knew was that when she came to, she cried out for her mother and began manhandling the staff.

 

This was another thing which bothered Berman. How does a 14-year-old girl manhandle someone like Dmitri? The big man scratched his bandaged face surreptitiously as he failed to meet Berman's eyes. "We decided it might be best to evaluate the girl's neoplasms in the appropriate setting, sir."

 

"She has no cancer, Dmitri," Berman retorted dryly. "Your diagnosis was incorrect."

 

"Begging your pardon, sir, I have been at this for much longer than you have. I know what I saw, and I have MRI films to prove it."

 

"As you say," Berman said, "but the fact remains she is a danger to our staff. Have you been keeping a guard on this child, Dmitri?"

 

"Yes sir, day and night guards are posted outside her door. She is restrained, and is being given a 60mg morphine drip. She is sleeping, but is intermittently restless."

 

"Cut the morphine, Dmitri. I want to speak with this child." They had been walking toward a room at the end of the wing with two uniformed security guards standing at their ease in front of it. They snapped to attention when Berman arrived. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said, regarding each with a nod.

 

Inside, a slight, tanned girl with black hair lay on the hospital bed. Leather restraints held her ankles and wrists to the bed, and a bandage covered her left arm from armpit to fingertip. She was awake, and her eyes appeared heavy. Berman adjusted the drip on her IV.

 

"Good morning, Maria," he began, and he did so her eyes opened wider to regard him. "It's good to see you are doing better. Now, I am going to need to speak with you about what happened yesterday."

 

Maria swallowed and looked at Dmitri, who had cold steel in his eyes. "I...I don't know what happened, doctor. I panicked. I'm sorry. I did not want to hurt anyone."

 

"You are lucky to be alive, Maria," Berman continued. "Dr. Markovich here seems to believe that you have a serious illness, but I think all you need is a little visit with one of our psychiatrists. They will be able to help you control your urges."

 

"I'm not crazy, doctor," Maria continued, "I just need to see my mother."

 

"Your mother is in the first floor ICU, Maria," the big man said to her. "She suffered 3rd-degree burns on 20% of her body and will need time to recover."

 

"Dmitri!" Dr. Berman said. "Maria doesn't need to hear this, do you understand?" The older man looked away, obviously put off by the chastisement. "Now Maria," he started again, but it was too late. Maria had tears streaming down her face.

 

"Mama!" she cried, "I'm sorry Mama!" She opened her mouth as she sobbed, gasping in air as she filled the room with her cries.

 

Dmitri felt odd about the situation. He had seen plenty of patients react this way about hurt or infirmed loved ones, but something about this young girl was affecting him somehow. His skin began to prickle fiercely.

 

Just then, balls of light appeared before Maria as she sobbed and hovered over her midsection. Dr. Berman stood stupefied, skin prickling, watching as the balls of light grew in intensity from soft white orbs to yellow, brilliant ones. He could hear Dmitri calling for the guards somewhere in the background. There was enough heat coming from them to cause Berman to wrinkle his forehead. He threw up his arm to protect his eyes. The last thing he noticed before he lost consciousness was that Maria's face was distorted in a rictus, and that strangely, the balls of flame did nothing to affect her.

["Mosk and Merk"]

Ludmilla's cup of coffee shook as she held it gingerly in her soot-

blackened hands. It was a cold day in Kiev -- most days of late had

been particularly bitter, not helped by the chaotic goings-on that had

kept nearly half the country watching their steps. This has been her

fourth cup in the last hour, she realized suddenly. Sleep was getting

harder to come by, and as rations became thin, she feared she would

lose even more sleep, though none of that really mattered at the

moment. Her grip tightened and the misshapen paper cup sloshed

lukewarm liquid onto her hand. The spill made runnels along the back

of her hand, which dripped as a sickening blend of sooty coffee

spattered onto the linoleum.

 

 

Ludmilla hardly noticed that she had lost some of her drink. She had

been staring intently at the same thing for the past twenty minutes --

the double doors which led from the waiting room of the hospital and

into the patient's quarters. She was distracted from her vigil as two

figures clad in pale green scrubs and matching face masks wheeled in a

new patient from the lifts. Even Ludmilla knew that every day that

passed would bring more patients. More like these. More like her

son, Anatoly.

 

 

"Fifteen days," she thought, looking down at her wristwatch still

slightly damp from the spilled coffee. Today marked the fifteenth day

since the event. The day they all said would one day come. Russians,

Americans, Chinese...it made no difference. Ludmilla was reminded of

a saying which confirmed this now-fulfilled prophecy. "It's in the

nature of humans to destroy themselves."

 

 

Ludmilla was not yet born when Chernobyl was destroyed. They said

that such a thing could never happen again, and as far as Ukraine was

concerned, it never did. But this was something else. She was

certain that no government on earth would ever resort to the use of

the bomb, not since the Americans did in the last century. The

governments of the world had a name for it, a foreboding of doom

should anyone try to do it again. What was it called? MAD?

 

 

The double doors burst open. A man in the same greens as the others

who had earlier passed came forward, his graying temples visible

through the mask and cap. He tugged the mask toward his neck to

reveal a thick gray beard. "Mrs. Novikov?"

 

 

Dr. Mischa Simonov was Kiev General Hospital's head oncologist. He

had perhaps kept busiest of all citizens in the past few days, as

increased cases of radiation sickness were admitted day by day.

Junior doctors emerged from the doors and assailed Dr. Simonov with

questions about patients' conditions. He quickly addressed and

directed their actions, sending them back through the double doors

whence they came. He had the look of experience and poise about him,

and gave no indication of a lack of sleep except for a hint of dark

circles underneath his grandfatherly eyes. "Mrs. Novikov, I'm afraid

I have some bad news. Shall we sit?"

 

 

Ludmilla's heart sank. Did Anatoly succumb to the radiation?

"Please, Doctor. Is he gone?"

 

 

The doctor shook his head. "Anatoly is stable for now, but he appears

to be suffering the effects of acute radiation sickness. Judging from

the radiological examinations performed on him, he has perhaps

absorbed some 5 Grays of radiation. I don't expect him to survive for

more than four or five days or so. I am so sorry, Mrs. Novikov."

Ludmilla hid her face in her hands and sobbed. The doctor placed his

hands on her head to console her. "I am so sorry. I wish there was

more we could do. As it is, we will increase his painkillers and make

his stay with us as comfortable as possible, you have my word." She

nodded behind her hands, still weeping for Anatoly. Poor Anatoly.

Only twenty years old, and attending University, until this horrific

thing happened. He would have become an engineer, to work on the

construction of bridges, buildings. She thought she would never stop

crying.

 

 

The double doors flew open again. "Dr. Simonov!" A fresh-faced

young surgeon called from the doorway. Ludmilla looked up through

bleary eyes. Was this the same young doctor from before? She wished

she could have a moment in peace, without having to share company in

what suddenly seemed like a cold, heartless place where people came to

die.

 

Dr. Simonov frowned in annoyance, his hands still cradling Ludmilla's

head. "What is it, Yuri?" Yuri looked bewildered behind his mask. "Doctor, the patient in 308! He's...He's..."

 

"Oh spit it out, Karpov! He's what?" He stood up, leaving Ludmilla

to herself. She looked up at the stuttering young doctor, who

couldn't get a word out but instead pointed frantically at the doors.

 

"Mrs. Novikov, I will be right back. Please wait here." As soon as

he finished the sentence, another surgeon came hurriedly through the

doors.

 

"Doctor Simonov, the patient in 308," she looked down at some

paperwork affixed to a clipboard, "A.N."

 

"Anatoly?" Ludmilla exclaimed, looking at the female doctor. Her eyes

met hers for a brief moment, which was enough for Ludmilla. They were

talking about her son. "Anatoly! Oh God, is he dead?"

 

"No," the female doctor began slowly, and then turned to Dr. Simonov,

who now held the woman by the shoulders as if to wrench some

information from her. "Doctor I think you need to see this for

yourself. Mrs. Novikov, why don't you come, too?"

 

The white linoleum tiled floor which continued from the waiting room

and into the patient's quarters stretched down a long corridor flanked

by a series of doors on either side. This wing was full, holding all

the people injured by the blast or the effects of its fallout.

 

Ukrainians were taught early how to enter bomb shelters and make use

of radiation shielding equipment, but to have a bomb hit this close,

all the iodine in the world would not be a help to these people. The

three doctors and Ludmilla walked about halfway down the long corridor

until coming to a small room on the left. Ludmilla's mouth gaped open

as she dropped her coffee cup onto the floor.

 

Anatoly was stretching up to a television set set up opposite the

large bed in the room, flipping the channels and trying to get a

picture. "Silly boy," Ludmilla smiled as tears continued down her

face. What TV stations would be operating after this?

 

"Oh hi, Mom. Gosh you'd think that something, ANYTHING, would be

working by now. Hasn't it already been two weeks?" Anatoly still

had the IV tubes stuck to him. Ludmilla turned to regard Dr.

Simonov, who shared her initial dumbfounded expression.

 

Ludmilla ran forward to hug her son. She buried her face into his

chest and sobbed loudly. "Are you okay, Mom? Really, I feel fine."

 

"You should be back in bed! You are very sick, and you will hurt

yourself carrying on like this." The female surgeon -- Danilov was

her name -- took Anatoly by the wrist and began to gently coax him

toward the bed. "Please, sir, it is for your own health."

 

"No, really, you can probably take these tubes out of me," Anatoly

looked...alive. When Ludmilla had found him earlier yesterday

morning, he was pallid and almost lifeless. What had happened? How?

He began to tug at his IV.

 

"He must be reacting to the meds," Dr. Simonov said finally. "Karpov

stop standing there like a fool and fetch the morphine drip. NOW!"

Dr. Karpov snapped his mouth closed and hurried out. "Mrs. Novikov, I

must--"

 

"He's cured!" Ludmilla exclaimed. "Doctor, thank you! Thank you!"

She turned to throw her arms around the doctor, who promptly caught

her arms.

 

"Dr. Danilov, please see to it that he gets his morphine, and gets

back to bed," he loosened his grip but still held Ludmilla by her

wrists. "A word outside, please, Mrs. Novikov."

 

He led her out into the hall. More gurneys were being wheeled by with

sallow, coughing faces peeking out from beneath bedsheets. "Mrs.

Novikov, I am afraid that this means nothing. Anatoly must be

reacting well to the medication we have administered, but the truth

remains that he has received a lethal dose of radiation, and he will

die. I am sorry to tell you this way, but I do not want to get your

hopes up."

 

Ludmilla could not understand. "But...you saw him. Look how he

looks, Doctor. He doesn't look like..." she regarded a passing

gurney, holding a boy somewhat younger than Anatoly. His eyes were

closed, and he appeared clammy and his hair damp with sweat.

 

"I must admit, I have never seen such a temporary remission from the

effects of radiation sickness, but I must adhere to my initial

prognosis." Dr. Simonov grasped her hands in his. "I am sorry."

 

Ludmilla pulled away. She could not believe it. "NO!" but the word

came out before she said it. It came from within the room!

 

Dr. Danilov ran out, screaming. "The devil! He is the devil!"

Her clipboard clattered onto the ground as she scurried away.

 

Ludmilla rushed in to find Anatoly standing next to his bed, his IV

tubes pulled hastily from his body and monitors still taped to his

chest. He was staring bug-eyed at his hands.

 

"What's the meaning of this, young man?" Dr. Simonov demanded. "You

will not assault my staff! We doctors risk our lives to help people

like you, now get back in your bed NOW!"

 

"Look, sir," Anatoly began, "I told you, I am fine. I don't need to

get back in this bed. I tried to tell her, but she wouldn't listen,

so I..." he returned to staring at his hands.

 

Dr. Simonov gripped Anatoly by the shoulders and began to press him

slowly towards the bed. Just then Ludmilla started as Dr. Simonov was

shoved hard by Anatoly against the wall. The TV worked loose from the

mounting and crashed onto the floor. Anatoly and the doctor strangely

shared the same look of disbelief.

 

"What are you...doing to me?" The doctor managed, his voice sounding

strained, as if out of breath. Ludmilla couldn't move or scream. She

watched in simultaneous awe and horror as she regarded the scene

before her. The doctor was being HELD against the wall,

by...something! There were impressions on the man's arms and chest,

as if an invisible force kept him affixed. Gaping, she turned slowly

back to her son.

 

"Anatoly..." her son kept his right hand held out in front of him.

His face was bewildered, but his voice was ice.

 

"Mom, let's pay these fine people and get out of here. Thank you,

doctor, but I believe we can manage." Dr. Simonov's invisible

restraints gave way as he slumped down the wall and onto the ground.

Ludmilla could not believe what she was seeing. She felt her head

becoming light, and she stumbled backward, catching herself and trying

to shake away the fainting spell.

 

"S-S-Security!!!" Dr. Simonov shouted. "I need security, NOW!"

 

 

 

***to be continued***

[Towers of Midnight Thread [Merged]]

Consider also that of sisters amid the White Tower, Verin's list is pretty thorough.

 

We can be fairly certain that Taim and possibly everyone loyal to him is a darkfriend. Else why would they have made such a huge spectacle of the phrase "Let the Lord of Chaos Rule," which was something spoken to Demandred.

 

In spite of this, it seems that Aes Sedai of any kind don't reside in Taim's palace.

 

Hence, known Black sisters wouldn't be holed up in the Black Tower -- they'd be out the open, where any walkers-in-the-Light could identify them, unless they all walk around with Mirror of Mists inverted disguises, which I am pretty sure most Black sisters cannot do (I guess that would depend on their place in the Shadow's pecking order).

 

If all that is true, then your tons of Black sisters who fled the White Tower, the ones identified by Verin anyway, won't have solace in the Black Tower. They'd need to be elsewhere, concealed.

 

Here's where I get hazy: all of Elaida's 51 member emissary are bonded by Asha'man; the sisters don't bond them.

 

You see, in ToM, Taim said to Pevara and Javindhra that there was a group of sisters from the White Tower that were waiting to bond Asha'man. Pevara dismisses them as rebels. Who are these sisters? Egwene's rebels? But if the Tower is whole again and Egwene is Amyrlin, would Pevara refer to such sisters as rebels?

 

If they are Elaida's emissaries, they've already been bonded. Not only that, but they are visible to Pevara, the leader of the Black Ajah Task Force. She would recognize them as the Black sisters they are, if there were any in that group, which I doubt.

 

It's possible, I presume, that since the Asha'man bond sort of "compels" sisters to do their bidding, that they might weave in a manner that suits darkfriends, all against their will. It would need to be determined if this Asha'man bond can compel a sister to the point where she can break her Oaths.

 

Crazy stuff, this Wheel of Time.

[Towers of Midnight Thread [Merged]]

Elaida's token reappearance has all but ruined her character, so I'm just going to pretend it never happened .

Same here. I like Elaida (don't ask me why, I know she's a complete, arrogant bitch but she's fun to read and she was hot in the comics), so I'm going to pretend she died hilariously in the Seanchan raid and never became a prisoner.

 

What of the weird "bots" at the Black Tower? Tarna Feir, among other weirdly-smiling clones? (Sorry if this was addressed before, haven't read through the entire thread yet).

Wow, long time no see, man! Welcome back. We think they were forcibly turned to the Shadow using the technique Sheriam mentioned waaaay back in TDR, where 13 channelers focusing their weaves through 13 Myrddraal can capture another channeler's soul for the Shadow. Supposedly it also completely twists the victim's personality and removes all good traits like empathy, compassion, etc. Poor Tarna, I liked her.

 

AH you know I hadn't thought of that in a while. Yes, it sounds like that's what happened. HOWEVER: how could this have happened at the Black Tower?

 

Don't you need a circle of 13 to force someone over to the "dark side"?

 

Men can't circle. There needs to be, what, one more woman than the number men in a circle?

 

If that's correct, then they'd need at least 7 women, right?

 

Hmmm...can you think of any recent emissary groups to the Black Tower consisting of 7 or more sisters? I think you just might have figured out someone not on Verin's list!

[Why should Moiraine be queen?]

Aww, no love for Elayne?

 

 

 

 

 

j/k

 

It would be great if the Two Rivers staged a coup on her.

 

"Seize the wench!"

 

"Tar and feathers, ho!"

 

"The lands of Lord Perrin Goldeneyes banish ye forthwith! Tai'shar Manetheren!"

 

 

I lol'd when Elayne got that letter from the Two Rivers telling her tax collectors to pound sand.

 

As for Moiraine as queen, she is obviously more than capable, and after Tarmon Gaidon is done, then basically her role as a Blue is done, too, since her "cause" was to help the Dragon Reborn. Maybe she will have a political change of heart and vie for the throne.

[Towers of Midnight Thread [Merged]]

Hey yall.

 

Is the consensus on ToM meh? I think I came away from it feeling that way, too.

 

What of the weird "bots" at the Black Tower? Tarna Feir, among other weirdly-smiling clones? (Sorry if this was addressed before, haven't read through the entire thread yet).

 

Momo's back, huh? I never really thought Moiraine was THAT into Thom, but I guess I was wrong and the ladies of MW were dead on. Bravo!

 

Still feels like there are still quite a few loose ends, esp. concerning the Aiel and the Seanchan.

 

Why, in the epilogue, was Graendal cursing Perrin's ham??? edited for derp

 

Is there another dreamspike somewhere near the Black Tower? I wonder if Demandred is close by Mazrim Taim. RJ has said they are not the same.

 

Perrin's wolf stuff is bleh, but him deflecting balefire was pure PWN. I let out a "HA HA!" at that part, and people looked at me funny.

 

More observations/theories/reflections later...

[The Gathering Storm Thread]

That RJ's WoT is biased against women is not ill-projected at all. I think we've established that time and again over here!

 

Eh, consider the source, and their ardor for leftist doctrine.

 

RJ himself set out to create an ideally egalitarian world. With nearly every chapter riddled with some exclamation like, "Woolbrained men!" or some such suggestion that men are "ox-brained" and need the guidance of a woman to do right, the question still stands how this opinion can be so.

 

Indeed, there are some instances where women characters are denigrated by others' thoughts, but if anything I think the balance tips in the favor of the overall female deprecation of men.

 

Do you mean to contend that RJ's choice of such verbiage is intended to placate women? If so, I pose the question -- would it have been better in your eyes for RJ to be openly chauvinistic in his writing? No quarter for female characters at all, just a testosterone chest-thumping put-women-in-their-place series?

 

If you have established that RJ is biased against women time and time again here, rather than point me to fringe websites, why don't you fire up an archived post logically and objectively citing such bias?

[The Gathering Storm Thread]

You seem to suggest that I am ignorant, but which of my characterizations of any of the aforementioned concepts was inaccurate? Let me start with a question -- You aren't denying that women in the WoT are powerful, but since you opined that they are portrayed as "nagging," that makes their representation misogynistic?

 

If what you are suggesting is that RJ was bad at conveying egalitarian partnerships between the sexes, the evidence of which being men vis-a-vis Aes Sedai and particularly Cadsuane, why do you not consider Occam's razor, in that perhaps it was simply his intention to employ elements of conflict? As I have said, stronger than the suggestion of misogyny is the overtone of stubbornness. Aes Sedai and particularly Cadsuane are used to getting what they want. Rand and everyone from the Two Rivers, since TEoTW, have overtly been attributed with going any way but the way you try to push them. Why, therefore, is the accusation of misogyny warranted?

 

The continued use of the adjective "mild" makes the misogyny argument very banal, in my opinion. Consider the source -- a two-time Vietnam combat veteran with an education in hard science raised in South Carolina, and needless to say a male. Any such person will likely have what you might call "traditional" views. I think to expect otherwise is unrealistic, yet here we are in a world where women rule the roost, fact. Is it perfect? No, but I enjoy it, and the New York Bestsellers list seems to think a lot of other people do, too. I wonder how many people who continue to buy book after book complain about "mild misogyny" and tout it as a fair criticism of his work, especially considering the source.

 

Specifically how would you have altered the plot or what verbiage would you have edited to realize what you characterize as a "forward-thinking view" in this fiction?

 

Within the world of the WoT, it is a fact that women have privilege over men. Women may be subjectively perceived as "naggers." I do not see them this way. I simply see a world set in its ways for 3000 years being turned upside down by splendidly horrific machinations of the mind.

 

Please be mindful that I am not telling you to not have your opinion. I just don't think it's a fair criticism of RJ's work, and to call it misogynistic in spite of it sounds like defeatism. On the other hand, per your gracious link:

 

I think that those who would rather avoid acknowledging the global injustices that women face, those who deem themselves successful in the struggle, those who find it easier to accuse us of ‘whining’ rather than critically examining their own role in those injustices when we speak about them, are further enabled in their deliberate ignorance by the “you can help yourself” school of thought. Individual solutions for collective problems don’t work.Not everyone can help themselves. Should we stop speaking about that because it’s percieved as ‘whining’? Many, many women actually are victims – and many more still are survivors – should we, as feminists, really be saying “shit happens, get over it – I have” when, globally, the making of women as victims (and survivors) is systemic and political? I’m thinking, not.

 

I’m thinking the “stop whining” response is one that comes from those who’d like to close us down, shut us up, make us be quiet.

 

Which is fine, except that within the scope of the WoT, women aren't disadvantaged. However, is that supposed to mean that ANY perceived sexism is legitimate, and anyone who disagrees with said perception must be a willful oppressor of women?

 

I find it amusing that you would cite an admittedly partial, left-of-center blog as your means for supporting an ill-projected argument that RJ's TWoT is biased against women.

[Happy Valentine's Day MW]

Here's wishing y'all a good one!

 

[The Gathering Storm Thread]

In an attempt to avoid further claims of bias and sexism, I'd say Jordan randomly over-compensates on either side of the board. The sexism isn't that one is innately more good, or evil, or better so much as men and women have separate spheres of influence, and the meeting of these spheres usually ends in one of the two sexes getting the short end of the stick.

 

But, again, one of the frequent themes in WoTverse is the polarization of the world. Light vs. Dark and Women vs. Men. I think the fact the True Source is divided along gender lines would be a clear indicator of that.

 

Another one of those themes is that the two are not nearly as effective apart than together, so many Egwene and Rand can make nice and improve the world drastically? Assuming one or both of them survives and all.

 

Point taken, well stated.

[The Gathering Storm Thread]

What about:

 

-Ogier females arranging marriages with absolutely no male input

-Women's Circles with as much sway as Village Councils who frequently interfere with their business but expressly forbid meddling in their own.

-More male Forsaken than female

-No female Myrddraal

-Atha'an Miere women are always the captains of their vessels.

-References to the Dark One include male pronouns, whereas references to the Creator are gender-neutral, if memory serves.

 

The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that if the Wheel of Time is sexist, it leans toward misandry.