Chapter Text
Galad was dying. He knew it with certainty, though he could not have said how. Gareth Bryne had told him that men never know when they are dying, that they relax—and that is why they die, ironic as it may be. But Galad knew. He did not know why or how, but he knew. He felt his soul leaving his body. Or perhaps he was bleeding out? What did it matter? He was dying all the same.
That bastard, Demandred, had been good. Very good. Better than anyone he had ever faced. Even Eamon Valda had not been so fast, so cunning, so deft. It was like comparing a stray cat to a lion. Both of the same breed, yet one unimaginably greater than the other.
It was strange that he was thinking of one of the Forsaken in the last moments of his life. He ought to be remembering his family. Morgase, Gawyn, Elayne—and him. Rand al’Thor. It was still unfamiliar to think of him as a brother. Galad had not even known him. He had seen him only once, on that very day when he had fallen upon Elayne like snow out of a clear sky. Unlike Gawyn, whom Galad had almost raised himself.
Thoughts of his brother distressed him. He should have protected Gawyn. Preserved his life no matter the cost. He should have! But he had failed. The boy he had nearly raised had died in his arms. Choking on his own blood, wracked with wounds, his entrails spilling out! Oh, Light, Morgase and Elayne must hate him! They had entrusted him with their boy, their son, their brother! Burn him in the Light for it! He had not protected his mother from his father! He had not protected Morgase from Eamon! He had not protected Elayne from the Tower! He had not protected Gawyn from himself! He had not protected a single one of his brothers!
What kind of wretch was he? He had played at his foolish games while his family suffered. Where had he been when Gawyn was consumed by rage against al’Thor? Where had he been when Valda, that bastard, did as he pleased with Morgase? Where had he been when Elayne fought for her throne? He had been playing at being a Whitecloak! A sanctimonious fool teaching others how to live while his own family drowned in misery! What nonsense! The Pattern must never have seen a greater disappointment!
But what did it matter now? He was dead—or dying. Wounded, broken, and lost, like a stray dog. But had he not always been thus? Too pitiful and insignificant for a world far too vast. Even his mother had preferred another son to him. And she had not been wrong. There he was—al’Thor, the Dragon Reborn! Prince of the Dawn! Bringer of the Light! Who was Galad beside him? A boy playing at being a hero from songs and legends.
Elayne had thought so as well. She had always seen him for what and who he was, and had never hesitated to say it. And he, fool that he was, had always taken offense, believing her mistaken. And who had been right? He had one task. One bloody task—and he had failed! Tens of thousands had died because he, Galad, could not overcome a single foe. How many sons had been left fatherless? How many fathers childless? How many widows and widowers had he made through his weakness? He had failed them all. As he had failed Tigraine, Morgase, Elayne, Gawyn, Gareth, and al’Thor. He had failed everyone he could. Perhaps the Pattern would grant him what he deserved in the next life. If, of course, his brother succeeded.
“That is where the problems arise, I suppose.” The voice tore him from his thoughts. So familiar, yet distant. What in the Light? “Did you not recognize me?”
Galad turned quickly and—wait. Turned? How had he…? Galad suddenly realized he was standing in the gardens of the Caemlyn Palace. A place so distant—literally and metaphorically. He was on the Field of Merrilor now, bleeding out. At least he should have been. How could he have come to Caemlyn? It was nonsense—and given that Caemlyn had burned, utter madness—for the gardens, where Elayne had spent so much time, were whole. The same flowers, the same bushes, the same fountains, and the same wall from which…
“I fell,” Galad heard the voice again. But now he remembered where he knew it from. He could not be here. Could he?
“Actually, I can.” The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Galad felt as though he heard it inside his own head. What in the Light was happening here?
“I would explain it to you, but there is little time.” A hand fell upon Galad’s shoulder, and he saw Rand al’Thor standing before him. Shining, like the sun itself. His mere presence seemed to fill the space. Galad felt the urge to fall to his knees before that Light and lower his eyes. For some reason, al’Thor seemed to him something more exalted than any other. Even Morgase upon the Lion Throne of Andor had never affected him so strongly. But Galad did none of these things.
“What are you doing here?!” Galad’s hand seized the Aielman by the collar of his red coat and shook him. “You should be at Shayol Ghul! What are you doing here—wherever this is—while men are dying for you?”
When Gawyn died for you?
“I am fighting Shai’tan and speaking with you at the same time, brother.” Al’Thor was calm—which was astonishing, considering Galad himself flinched. The True Name of the Dark One still filled him with dread. But there was a more important question: how could he stand in two places at once? “This is not exactly a place, Galad. It is the World of Dreams, Tel’aran’rhiod, the psychic mirror of our world—essentially a sterile warp dimension. More precisely, a fragment of Tel’aran’rhiod. And I am not fighting Shai’tan upon the slopes of his ‘lair.’ We are both within the Pattern itself, in every particle of the multiverse—and even beyond it.” He paused for a moment, as if weighing his own words. “No, it seems there was time enough for explanations.”
“What does any of this matter?” He was not asking the right questions. It did not matter how he had come here. What mattered was why he was here.
“That, brother, is a good question.” He seemed to hesitate, as though unsure where to begin. Then he sat upon one of the benches and sighed. Why had he sighed? Galad noticed he himself was not breathing here, in this dream.
“You are right. There is no need to breathe here. But I am accustomed to it.”
“Answer the question, al’Thor! What are you doing here? Why are you wasting yourself on me?” As if I were worth it. His brother looked at Galad in a strange way, then seemed heartened, as though he had heard something pleasing.
“I am losing.”
Those words shook him. No—not shook. They nearly destroyed Galad. How? Why? He could not lose! He must not! How many had died for him? How many more would die? And all for nothing? No! No! No! Galad had to do something! If Rand al’Thor lost—
“For the Light’s sake, calm yourself! I have no intention of surrendering.”
“Then why are you here?! Why are you not fighting with everything you have?!”
“It is meaningless.” He hunched, as if in pain. Slowly he straightened, not without Galad’s help. “Even now he strikes at me. Each time it becomes harder to recover.” Bloody Dragon, why is he so calm?
“And you are giving up? Now? After all that has happened? After all who have died for you?!” If he had to beat sense into this boy, he would not object. Long ago he had dreamed of doing the same to Gawyn when he fell into Elayne’s mischief.
“For the Light’s sake, I already told you I will not surrender!” He stepped away from Galad and muttered something about a Wise One, whoever she might be. “I have a plan. But it is risky. Very.”
“Then put it into action!”
“What do you think I am doing?” The Dragon glanced at him briefly, as though assessing a horse at market. “You are part of that plan, brother.”
He? What could he possibly do? He had not even managed to kill Demandred. What was he beside the Dark One and the Dragon Reborn?
“Oh, no. It is more complicated than that.”
“Explain yourself. At once.”
“Right now, I have three paths. First: I continue the battle, and the Dark One wins. Second: I destroy the Pattern and the Wheel so that the world does not fall to the Great enemy. And finally, third: I set time itself back.”
“What did you say?” He could not be serious. Time could not run backward. The Pattern was already woven; it could not be unraveled—otherwise… what? The Pattern would be destroyed? But it already stood upon the brink of that. So what difference did it make what al’Thor risked, if all was racing toward its end? Tarmon Gai’don was nearly at its final line. Why quibble now?
“At this moment, the Wheel and the Pattern—and therefore time, space, matter, antimatter, and all the rest—are subject to me. I can unravel the Pattern and turn time back. The trick is difficult—no, more than that. It is nearly impossible. It will affect even Shai’tan, for we are both now entwined with the very mechanism of the Wheel. He will not remember the events I unravel.”
“Better than nothing, is it not?”
“Sound thinking, Galad.” Al’Thor seemed slightly encouraged and looked at him—so it seemed to Galad—with hope.
“But what have I to do with it?”
“I can preserve the memories of one person. Only one.” The bitterness in his voice made it clear this was the final option. Which did not surprise Galad. When had the Pattern ever been kind to them?
“Why me? There are many more… suitable. Perrin Aybara, Moiraine Sedai, Egwene Sedai, Matrim Cauthon—you yourself, in the end!” The desire to save Gawyn, to support Elayne, to spare Morgase pain, was tempting. And Galad feared that temptation might conquer him. What if his desire to protect those he loved led to worse consequences? He did not wish to yield to temptation. But still… questions ripened in his mind. Had it been right? Had he not lived striving to do what was right? And what had that brought him? His family? The world?
“I would like to say that I trust you more than any other, that I believe in you and your convictions…”
“But…”
“But you are the only one I could reach. Everyone you named has been shielded by Shai’tan from my influence. You turned out to be…”
“Not the most important piece on the board. Is that it?”
“Yes…” He admitted it reluctantly. Galad might have taken offense—but at what? He truly was, at best, a useless pawn. On the one hand, it was almost pleasant that the Dark One had overlooked him. On the other, it stung. Slightly.
“And you?”
“He watches me. If my soul returns to the past, he will follow—and he will be free.”
“So in truth, no one else remains?”
“There is Berelain, but I doubt she could influence me as strongly as you.”
“Influence you? What are you talking about?”
“One of the reasons I am losing now is that I closed myself off. At a certain point I became arrogant, cold—and then nearly without feeling, or at least I tried to be. I wasted time making myself unbreakable when I should have become flexible.”
“And you think I can manage that?” It was absurd. Why would al’Thor listen to him? Why would the Dragon heed him—a half-prince? A boy without a future in either of his homelands?
“You must, Galad. I needed someone who would stand beside me no matter what. Always. Everywhere. Someone I could trust absolutely.”
“You had Min. And your Aiel woman—not to mention Elayne.”
“Yes, I did. But your sister had a duty greater even than me—Andor. The same is true of Aviendha; she is first and foremost an apprentice to the Wise Ones. And Min… well, she tried as best she could. But she could not always be with me, though she wished to.”
“And she failed. Why do you think I would succeed?”
“Do I have a choice, Galad?” He smiled sadly and placed a hand upon his shoulder. “Whether you wish it or not, you must protect me.”
“You should know—I will protect my family first.” It was selfish. But they were his family. He could not let Gawyn die. Not again. And he would sooner die than allow Morgase to suffer. For good or ill, the die was cast.
Rand lowered his eyes and sighed mournfully. His shoulders seemed to slump; he appeared smaller somehow. The aura that had filled the entire garden vanished in an instant. From the great Dragon Reborn, Rand al’Thor became once more the shepherd Galad had first encountered. The swiftness of the transformation unsettled him. Too late he realized he had excluded Rand from the list of his family. But was that truly what had wounded him?
“That is fair, Galad. But you must understand. If you allow me to become what I was two months ago, the world will fall. Again. And this time the trick of unraveling the Pattern will not work. The Enemy will not permit it. This is your only chance.”
“And I will not waste it.” The world rested upon his shoulders. Literally. Once he might have thought such an outcome the only possible one. What else had he ever done but accept his duty and walk on? But now? Now that he had lost a brother—one of his brothers, he corrected himself—what was he to do with that weight? As always, carry it to the end. But this time not because he must—because he chose to.
“I want you to understand, Galad. The me that was needed an elder brother he could rely on. Someone he could trust.”
“If you are implying that I should—” No. He would not abandon his family again.
“I did not say that. Only remember—this is not your personal vendetta. The entire multiverse is at stake. Not merely our world, but all possible worlds, dimensions, planes of reality, parallel universes, timelines, astral levels, pocket spaces, and more. Do not forget that.”
Galad said nothing. He had not understood half of those words, but he understood one thing clearly: he would not leave al’Thor alone. He was not so selfish as that. He could—
“You must stay with me. My paths with Gawyn will cross before his death. I will tell you when. Then you will be able to save him. He will listen to you.”
“And Morgase?”
“I could have saved her. I was only days too late. But you know her fate. You will see that I save her, once Callandor is in my hands and I can master it.”
Galad considered all that had been said. It sounded reasonable—very much so. He even wondered whether Moiraine Sedai had devised the plan. Yet doubt still gnawed at him. What if he failed? If he pursued al’Thor, he might not reach Morgase or Gawyn in time. If he remained with them, he might lose the chance to save the world. In his mind he knew that the life of the entire Pattern and the Wheel outweighed a pair of royal lives—but his soul resisted.
“Believe me—you will succeed.” Al’Thor clapped him on the shoulder. “You must believe that.”
“When will you send me back? It would be best in my youth. I could gather an army for you. The Borderlands, the Aiel, perhaps even the Children of the Light.” The sooner he killed Valda, the better.
“I will try. But I think it will be about a month before my fall here.”
Galad barely suppressed a groan of disappointment. Of course it would not be so simple.
“Why not earlier?”
“The further back in time, the more unstable the Pattern becomes. It might happen that in an earlier time I am found not by Moiraine, but by the Black Ajah—or worse, the Red. Even so, there will be small changes, even if I send you there. A word here, a word there. A gift from the future.”
“Very well… What must I know before all this?”
“I am glad you asked. Now we begin our little excursion through my journey.” The Dragon rubbed his hands together impatiently.
The next hour—or day; time flowed strangely here—they spent in conversation. Long, and not especially captivating. This fellow would never make a gleeman or bard, Galad thought, comparing al’Thor to Thom Merrilin. That one had been a master. He still remembered how his stepmother’s lover had entertained him with stories after his father’s death. Those had been good days.
However poor al’Thor was as a storyteller, he conveyed the essentials. How he and his friends had been found in Emond’s Field by a Blue Aes Sedai. How they had fled from Trollocs and Myrddraal into the darkest place in the world—save for Shayol Ghul. How they had been separated, and al’Thor had met a young Ogier. How they had reunited in Caemlyn—and how he had somehow managed to fall into the garden of the Queen of Andor. How they had traveled through the Ways to Fal Dara and journeyed to the Eye of the World, where they met the Green Man.
He might have continued much longer—or perhaps not, given the peculiarities of time in this place—but he was interrupted by a roar. A monstrous explosion of sound, light, and pure Power would have hurled Galad away, had al’Thor not caught him and kept him from falling.
“What was that?!” Galad asked, struggling to regain himself.
“Shai’tan,” the Dragon said hoarsely. “He has found us.”
“Burn me! You have not told even a tenth of it, have you?”
“No. And I will not.” Al’Thor turned to him and smirked. “You will have to manage on your own, brother.”
“But—”
“Just stay beside me. That will be enough. I hope.”
The gardens around them began to crumble. Cracks split the sky, and darkness seeped through them. The flowers withered, exuding the stench of rot left too long beneath the sun. The dream was turning into a nightmare—just as al’Thor had foretold.
“Oh—and one more thing. I nearly forgot. Deal with Padan Fain as soon as you can. He is more dangerous than he appears. Far more. He is very strong.”
“Fain? That peddler from your village?”
He nodded, watching the fractured sky.
“Anything else?”
“Tell no one that you came from the future. Shai’tan will lose his memory—but he watches the world through his servants. If he learns that someone like you stands with the Light, he will turn all his strength against you.”
The mere thought of being hunted sent a tremor through him—a primal fear he barely mastered.
“I am ready!”
He did not know whether he spoke truth or falsehood.
The world around them shattered completely into the finest fragments, and Galad fell into darkness. There was nothing around him. No time. No space. No life. No death. Only himself and al’Thor.
The Dragon blazed like a million suns, and his voice became thunderous. Once more Galad felt the urge to kneel before this being—man, or perhaps something more than man. But there was nothing upon which to stand. He was like a spark from a campfire beside a raging inferno.
The Dragon’s Light intensified and expanded. It consumed everything—the infinity of existence and the vastness of the void. It continued until he could no longer distinguish Darkness from Light, for both were now equally insignificant before this Presence.
All that Galadedrid Damodred had been—his identity, his experience, his feelings, his soul—nearly dissolved within that radiance. Nearly. Something held him back from complete oblivion.
Rand al’Thor, he remembered. His brother had saved him.
Galad felt an inexplicable unity with that Presence—something that bound him to everything that was, and to all that lay beyond.
He relaxed and closed his eyes, sinking into a blissful sleep.
And he no longer wished to wake.