Chapter Text
The doorlatch fell with an audible click. Nynaeve had never been more grateful for the sound that held the rest of the world at bay, if only for a few hours of blissful privacy.
She spun on the ball of one foot, pressing herself into Lan’s unyielding bulk. Her husband met her gaze.
Her husband!
If she had known when she awakened this morning, this was how this day was to end… well, she would have faced the Sea Folk appointment with a good deal more enthusiasm.
Lan. Dear Light, Lan was here in her arms, where he belonged. Finally.
Finally, she could breathe.
He had been missing for months. His message, relayed by Rand, had been … vague. Confusing even, until word of Moiraine’s demise had reached them. That had come as a shock.
She’d refused to despair. No doubt, Lan was in shock as well. He would come to his senses, make his way to her. She had been so sure. After their last parting, there was simply no question.
Yet as the weeks had worn on, her certainty had stretched thin. With neither sightings nor word from him, the jaws of doubt had begun to gnaw at her confidence. That his heart was hers, she was certain. But as strong and able a swordsman as he was, the Shadow now loomed across the land. Light, the Forsaken themselves walked free. The Creator only knew what evils could have befallen him without a Sister at his side…
Well. That mystery had been solved.
Pushing further thoughts about that out of her mind, Nynaeve stood on her toes to trace Lan’s cheeks before lacing her slender fingers through his hair. The long, thick strands shone like silk in the flickering light from the sconces that dotted the walls.
The man hadn’t broken a sweat despite the heat and humidity. How he managed to stay dry—fully buttoned in his wool jacket—she couldn’t even begin to fathom.
He remained stiffly poised, a Warder on duty, hands clasped firmly behind his back.
“This will not be the wedding night I would have wished for you,” he rasped.
Nynaeve blinked, taken aback.
Changes, he had warned her. The moment a Warder’s bond was torn asunder, a part of his soul was extinguished along with the Aes Sedai who held it. Emotion, empathy, kindness were often curtailed—if not obliterated—leaving only instinct and vengeance while the will to live haemorrhaged away.
Nynaeve ignored the prickles that Lan’s icy blue gaze sent down her spine.
She had seen the spark of his affection as he’d proclaimed his vows before the Sea Folk, felt the embers of his love as his lips brushed lightly over her own to seal their union. He’d been present enough to spare her the the embarrassment she’d endured during their last parting.
Oh… that farewell in Tear. He’d been furious to learn she was not returning to the White Tower, but hunting the Black Ajah instead. She might have died of mortification on the spot, if not for her indignation at the knee-melting intensity of his manhandling.
The unfamiliar knot that had formed in the pit of her belly as his mouth shamelessly plundered hers, right there in front of an embarrassed Egwene and gawking Elayne, returned. Light, he’d lifted her right off the floor then, treating her like some helpless, swooning maiden. So what if she was a maiden? She wasn’t a swooner. Or helpless.
The nerve of him.
Craning her neck to meet her husband’s eyes, she glared.
“Remove your shoes, petticoats and smallclothes,” he directed. “Leave the dress on.”
Lan spun her, pressing her towards the four post bed with his hand on her lower back. He unbelted his blades, two strides carrying him to drop them on the dressing bench as his eyes flicked to hers.
Rooted motionless, Nynaeve realized her mouth was hanging agape. She clicked her teeth shut.
“This marriage cannot be consummated with the tenderness you deserve,” he said matter-of-factly. “It will be threading a very fine needle just to get through this night without causing you undue discomfort—“
“Lan Mandragoran!” She yanked her braid so hard, tears sprang to her eyes. “This will be the the wedding night of my dreams, because it’s ours. Now stop this nonsense! I’m not some fresh-braided woman. I’ve attended a fair share of tender brides, and no few bleeding bridegrooms. I’ve heard every possible wedding night horror and I can assure you, any damage you might inflict, will be far from unmanageable.”
Despite the supreme confidence with which Nynaeve staked her claim, her bravado met with a flat look.
“We’re in private now, Nynaeve.” Lan’s baritone projected cool authority. “Indulge me in this. Please.”
Nynaeve grimaced, sticking her tongue out at his back as Lan flowed silently through the room. It took every ounce of her willpower to wordlessly divest herself of the clothing, folding it away neatly before placing her slippers next to the bed.
She climbed onto the mattress and closed her eyes, soothing herself with the imagined sound of the footwear hitting the far wall.
Lan closed the heavy curtains before dousing the candles, rendering the room pitch black. The sound of rustling fabric was followed by a dip in the mattress, then the thunk of each boot dropping to the floor.
That knot in her belly tightened as the bed shifted, Lan stretching himself out beside her.
Deafening silence formed a gulf between them.
“I will make it up to you,” he finally rumbled, “as best as I can, in the days ahead.”
At least those words were delivered with something resembling tenderness.
“But tonight will be…” he paused, as though searching for the right words. “Somewhat backwards.” She heard the intake of his deep, centering breath, the slow exhalation through his nose.
Everything with Lan seemed backwards at times. Though usually, she was the one who felt turned ‘round. He was worldly and refined—as much as a man could be, anyway. A king, by heritage at least. And she, no longer a Wisdom but still a simple village woman at heart.
His questing fingers found hers, enveloping her much smaller hand in his grasp. He was focused, she realized, as though steeled for battle. Her belly fluttered at the thought.
“Tell me,” she asked softly, “what can I do to make this easier?” For you. For us.
He hummed, reaching for her, his hand splayed over the fabric that still covered her stomach. The first proper touch he’d permitted himself as her husband. Chaste, yet strangely intimate all the same.
“Do you ever touch yourself?” His voice was tumbling gravel, hardly more than a whisper dancing across her ear. The words were innocuous enough, but she knew what he meant. That she couldn’t muster indignation at the question, surprised her. The thought made her quiver—or, perhaps it was the way his fingers tightened over her belly, as though they itched.
It was oddly thrilling.
“I wash myself, naturally—“ her voice gave way to the dryness in her throat. She coughed. The mattress shifted and she heard him pad softly around the room. She heard the pouring of liquid, heard him approach her side of the bed.
His hand grasped her shoulder, urging her to sit upright before he pressed the cup of water into her hands.
Nynaeve took a long swallow. Then a deep breath. Berated herself silently for the awkwardness of this moment. This was Lan, after all. Her husband.
His fingers brushed hers as he retrieved the cup. As it had so many times before, her belly fluttered at the fleeting touch. She heard him set the cup down on the bedside table, before he returned to his side of the bed.
She would do anything for Lan.
Shoving her blasted mortification aside, she gathered the fabric of her dress, bunching and twisting the skirt in her left hand as she turned to face him. Well, the darkness where she knew him to be. All the better that he can’t see my face aflame.
Pressing her free hand into the curls between her legs, she rooted for the delicate flesh.
“Tell me what to do,” she whispered.
She heard him uncap a container as the scent of lavender filled her nose. Wordlessly his hand covered hers, slicking her fingers before guiding them over her flesh. She grimaced at the strangeness.
“This is me touching you,” he whispered as he adjusted the pattern, pressure, pace of the touch, his hand never leaving hers. “It’s just one way to ready you. For tonight, the most expedient.”
The tone of his voice matched the tenor of his words—logical, methodical. Controlled. A process, she realized. And, somehow, that reassured her. Entrusting herself, this night, to his experience and judgement, she began to relax.
Lan was right. This was not the wedding night she had expected. Not that she’d had much in the way of expectations, really, but this was unlike any tale from the Women’s Circle. It wasn’t unpleasant, just different.
“Empty your mind,” he murmured, as though he could hear her thoughts whirring. Light, but the man could be unsettling at times! “Focus on the sensations.”
His fingers shifted as she exhaled, guiding her—his—touch over an exquisitely sensitive spot. Her breath hitched as a sweet tang of pleasure wound through her core and a whimper escaped her throat.
Lan eased the pressure on her hand, ceding control of her motions as his fingers drifted lower to explore the liquid desire between her intimate folds. He groaned. That sent a thrill along her spine.
The intrusion of his long, heavily knuckled finger, was accompanied by a mild sensation of stretching. He stilled a moment at her indrawn hiss of surprise, resuming the deliberate probing with soothing words of reassurance. Her hips shifted under his touch. A second finger soon joined the first, the sensation not unwelcome.
Craning her neck towards his measured breathing, Nynaeve realized with chagrin her own had grown ragged.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
“Not yet.” He climbed over her.
Her hands discovered his shirtless form. She traced the unyielding muscle under the smooth skin of his chest, the cords of his broad shoulders, the deep furrows that laced his back. His muscles rippled as he shifted to adjust his breeches.
“The weave,” he ground out.
It had been a younger Windfinder who had drawn her aside at his behest, after they’d spoken their vows. She’d protested on their way back to the palace, that heartleaf would do. But Lan had insisted on a more effective method.
With the sheath of air in place, she felt him slide through her folds, positioning himself at her entrance. He settled, balancing his weight on his elbows.
“Now tell me,” his whisper remained tightly controlled, “how you are so sure it was Moghedien who attacked you. How did you draw her attention?”
She hadn’t expected that.
His hips ground with maddening indolence as he peppered her with questions. It was bloody difficult to focus, to understand what he was asking, to form coherent replies.
“Lan,” she finally exhaled a frustrated sigh. “Can we talk about this later? I’d like to get on with it.” She was more than ready to surrender her maidenhead, prepared to endure whatever discomfort. It was long past time to seal their union.
“Get on with what?” The reply was entirely too glib as his hips rocked forward.
“Dear Light.”
How had she not realized, he was already inside?
“Open yourself to the Source,” he urged. The familiar guidance now rote, the mental image of a blackthorn blossom came to her. He shifted, his lips crashing down to devour her mouth as three slick nudges—she couldn’t rightly call them thrusts—found him fully seated.
Nynaeve felt complete. Whole.
She broke the kiss, gasping as her husband began to move. There was nothing gentle about their joining as he gave himself to her and claimed her for his own.
Glorious. It was glorious.
“Lan,” she breathed, her body tightening. He growled in reply as his hands found her breasts, caressing and squeezing through the fabric of her dress before tearing at the gap in the neckline to bare her skin. He wanted this, needed her as much as she needed him.
“Yes,” she cried out. “Oh, Light, yes!”
The creaking sound of the bed, punctuated by the staccato of the headboard knocking against the wall, wound the coil of her pleasure even tighter. Their moans rose together, climbing towards an undoubtedly magnificent peak.
Lan stilled. Heaving like Mandarb after a hard ride, his face dropped to the crook of her neck. Through the thundering of her racing pulse, she made out the whispered words of his muffled curse.
“Blood and bloody fucking ashes.”
Eyebrows rising at the hair-curling language, the likes of which she had never before heard pass his lips, Nyneave stroked Lan’s back as he pulsed within her. Slick now with sweat, he gathered her into his arms as he rolled to his side and groaned as his spent member slipped from between her legs.
He kissed her languidly, his fingers brushing the hair from her damp brow.
“You’re hot.” He was fully alert now. “Let’s get you out of this.” With a flurry, he stripped them of their clothes. Easing her back to the bed, his hand slipped between her thighs to caress her.
“You were so close,” he murmured as his fingers pressed deeper. “Is this alright?”
It wasn’t the same, not as filling. But it was still Lan. More like her Lan in fact. Less… fervent, more solicitous. Gentle, even.
“Yes,” she breathed. “More than alright.” Her body tightened over his touch. Their tongues tangled as he stoked her passion, caressing and teasing her in ways she had never imagined.
She was close now, the waves washing over her with increasing frequency when his weight suddenly shifted. Whinging in protest of his departure, she suddenly felt his mouth close over her intimate flesh. As she attempted to gather the wits to voice her shock over the unspeakable act, his tongue swirled over her sensitive nub.
Sending her to vocal, wordless oblivion.
The unimaginable crescendo of release left her limp as consciousness returned. Whether it had been seconds or minutes, she truly could not say—time had no meaning in that place where only the two of them existed.
She felt his lips pull into a smile.
“Good?” He stalked back over her, a lion hunting prey, kissing her thoroughly before pulling her into his embrace as rolled to his side. His rigid need rubbed languorously over her thigh.
“Again?” Unable to mask her surprise, she laughed. “So soon?”
“Warder stamina,” he replied simply.
“Small consolation,” she sniffed.
“Not so small, I should hope.” Lan huffed. “But little enough, to be sure.”
“Well,” she replied, “best make the most of it.”