ladyfirestarter | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's late in the afternoon of an ordinary day at the Taos installation, a fairly pleasant day in early spring.

Nobody is currently in a particular hallway on the second floor of Main, where one particular door (known only to a very few) is a fixed gate to a place called Milliways.

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The weak spot in the aorta has blown full open, like a popped seam in a tennis ball; blood is leaking out into her chest cavity, and her circulation has faltered and slowed. Her breathing hasn't stopped entirely, but the air isn't going anywhere, and shock is gripping her.

She can hear voices up ahead, and kind laughter. But there's something else.

It's him, standing by the side of the road, with one more glass. One more toast. One for the road, and the third time seals the deal.

Well, all right.

The power thrums through her, and her hazel eyes fly open to stare unseeing at the sound-dampening tiles of the ceiling.

Nynaeve's teeth score her bottom lip as she weaves red and green strands together, clearing out the blood and burning it away, at the same time as she spins a delicate network of silvery-blue and yellow filigree to stitch the blown-open heart back together.

And then--then she can start putting the rest of Rose's body back together. Sweat beads on her hairline--less from the power required than because the work is delicate, every weave precise and well-placed.

But eventually she sits back, hands still resting lightly on Rose's shoulders.

"Rose? Answer me, girl."

Her voice is rough, eyes a little unfocused.

She is, after all, still embracing saidar.

"--and the season of mists," she slurs; blinks.

(it was RED--)

Focuses, impressive speed. "I'm here," she says. "I'm okay. I'm here."

"Good. You just--stay where you are for now. Catch your breath."

Nynaeve needs to do that, too.

Just for a moment.

And this time, when she sags backward, Lan is there to catch her.

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