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A whimper breaks the silence. A fractured breath, short, almost a whisper lost in her throat.
Moiraine twists in her bed, fingers clawing at the fabric, her body rigid, wracked with shivers. Her eyelids flutter in rapid spasms. In the thin night air, stiff with the dry chill that follows the heat of this damn desert, her skin is cold, soaked in sweat. She can't wake up. She's trapped too deep, wrapped in faceless shadows that devour her from within.
Rand is about to step outside her tent, back turned, hand already gripping the coarse, heavy canvas, rough beneath his fingertips, when he hears it.
A clearer sound this time, sharper, unmistakable. It hits the base of his neck and lodges itself between his shoulder blades. For a moment, he stands frozen, caught mid-motion. His heart picks up speed, a dull thud in his throat, and a sudden wave of anxiety tightens in his chest.
Moiraine is having a nightmare.
"Take care of her, shepherd boy." Lan's words buzz in his ears like a stubborn echo. And yet now, as Moiraine's shoulders twitch in small spasms, as her breath turns shallow, erratic, nearly silent, Rand wishes Lan had never left. He wishes she hadn't let him go with that dry, ironic stubbornness, almost mocking the idea that he couldn't bear to stay away. Because the woman with her chin held high and one brow arched in smug defiance is not the one he sees now.
He had agreed to look after her. It felt right, fair, a matter of responsibility, yes, but also affection. But he hadn't imagined that taking care of her might mean this: watching her in such raw, unguarded fragility...
And now that she is, now that she tosses in her sleep as if something is tormenting her from the inside, he doesn't know what to do. He's had nightmares. He can't say whether more as a child or now. But he knows what it means to spend a night curled up on a straw mat, knees to chest, waiting for a mother who never comes, because she simply can't. He knows what it means to be comforted only by silence, by the wind between the boards, by the faint gleam of stars overhead. In short, he simply doesn't know what it means to be comforted.
So, he doesn't know how to comfort...
And yet, seeing her like this, it hurts in a way he can't explain. It squeezes his chest, too tightly, too close to something he doesn't want to name.
Her vulnerability laid so bare, her small forehead beaded with sweat, her slender body restless in its torment, clutches at his heart. He takes a step forward, but his legs are stiff, as if held back by something unseen. He doesn't know how to ease her pain, except by touching her.
Light, he wants to touch her...
But he doesn't know if she would want that. He doesn't want to cross a line. He doesn't want to violate her dignity. He doesn't want her to know he's seen her like this. She might not want him, at all.
Another sound.
This time, it's not a whimper. It's like crying, fragile, broken, childlike. A sound that should never belong to the woman lying in front of him.
Blood and ashes… he crosses the tent in long strides. In two steps, he's kneeling beside her bed.
"Moiraine..."
He tries a whisper, soft and gentle.
Her name feels so good, slipping freely from his lips in a sweetness he never dares allow himself. His hand brushes her shoulder, tentative, a featherlight touch that doesn't quite dare to become a touch. But she doesn't stir. Doesn't breathe differently. Doesn't flinch. She's somewhere far from him, locked inside that dream, or memory, or whatever ghost has taken her.
He needs to do more.
For a second, he thinks it might be Lanfear's fault, and he feels an uncontainable urge to hurt her, because she has no right to touch her. The pull of Saidin throbs in his limbs, reined in with difficulty, compressed like a venomous tide under his skin.
"Moiraine."
His voice drops further, down to a fragile whisper. But it's urgent. His hand moves to her face, resting gently against her cheek. His thumb moves slowly, trembling, tracing tiny, invisible circles on her cold, sweat, damp skin. He hopes the contact will be enough to bring her back.
Light, she's beautiful.
And no, it's not the right thing to be thinking at a moment like this, but he simply can't help it. She's always been beautiful. He's always thought so. Mat, Perrin, maybe even Lan, every man on the face of the earth must have, at least once, looked at her and thought she was one of the most beautiful women they had ever seen.
But he never let that awareness take root, never let it grow into something he couldn't tear out. He never allows himself to truly see her that way... But now, as his thumb keeps caressing her cheek, without him even realizing it, the reality of it cuts through him. Her skin, impossibly soft beneath his touch, lodges itself in his bones.
Something in his fingers must have worked, because he swears he feels a trace of calm creeping into her body, a fragile, precious truce. She's stopped crying. But her breath is still too shallow, too frantic.
He doesn't know why he does it...
Maybe it's the night that makes him bolder. Maybe a bit of madness has already taken hold. But on impulse, he lies down beside her, hoping his presence alone might offer some sense of safety, something faint, but real.
And apparently, it works. Thanks the Light. It's not madness.
Because Moiraine instinctively turns onto her side, still caught in that strange limbo between sleep and waking and reaches for the body beside her with a gesture born of habit, unconscious, automatic.
The thought that someone else might have done this for her, that someone else's body she's reaching for, maybe even Lan's, stirs in him a faint thread of jealousy. And yet, that thread dissolves in her scent, in the softness of her body, in the feeling of having her so close to him, closer than he ever imagined.
And he lets her.
He accepts her need without hesitation.
She curls against his chest with a slow, uncertain movement. He feels her settle against the curve of his body, her breath ragged, uneven. He doesn't care if she thinks he's Lan. He doesn't care if she thinks he's someone else. All that matters is that her body warms again.
Because she is so cold…
Cold enough to give him goosebumps.
Each time she breathes in, her forehead brushes the fabric of his tunic. Each time she breathes out, he lets something go.
Rand shivers slightly when a sudden tremor runs through her. Only then does he notice a small scar behind her right ear, barely visible beneath her loose hair.
A pale crescent.
He wonders where it came from.
No one would ever see it except someone allowed this close, someone she shares a certain intimacy with. A strange mix of privilege and guilt courses through him, because maybe that scar wasn't meant for his eyes. And yet, he wonders how many other things he's never seen on her. How many more he desperately wants to. He brushes a damp strand from her forehead, allowing himself a featherlight kiss on her hair.
There's no thought behind it. It just happens. A fragile gesture, almost unrepeatable.
But no, he doesn't want it to be unrepeatable. He wants to repeat it again and again. Because it feels so good.
"You're safe, Moiraine..."
He whispers, then, gently, presses his lips to her forehead. A second kiss. Then a third, barely there touches, no more than the passing of lips.
He doesn't know what has opened inside him, but he simply can't stop...
Sweet phrases tumble one after another, things he once longed to hear, things he now desperately wants to say to her:
"It’s ok." And another kiss "I won't let anyone hurt you."
The words drift lightly in the air between them, a thin thread trying to mend hidden pain, trying to stitch something back together inside him.
He loses himself in that rhythm of words and kisses, with an unbearable sweetness, a sweetness he never thought he had, a sweetness she is awakening in him, without even knowing that his low, rough voice is working on her like a lullaby. And suddenly, her breath begins to slow.
Rand doesn't fully realize it, but he's almost cradling her like a child.
He just wants this moment, which can only happen like this, with her unaware and him pretending it isn't real he wants it, to never end.
A part of him is afraid. Afraid of wanting to stay like this forever.
But now that her breath is calm and steady, her body released from tension, her face impossibly beautiful with the serenity of sleep, he realizes, with a tight knot in his chest, that this isn't his place.
Maybe he's never truly admitted to himself that he wanted it to be. But he doesn't want to see the embarrassment that will flood her eyes when she wakes. Nor the likely debate behind her gaze, wondering whether to allow him that closeness or deny it to preserve her dignity. So slowly, carefully, holding tight to the fragile, precious shard of this moment, he begins to disentangle her from his hold, to let her sleep alone.
But then…
her fingers clutch the fabric of his tunic with a fragile, stubborn strength. A frightened gesture, yet so deeply human it robs him of breath. She's not ready to let go. His heart contracts sharply. He swallows, then again, as if to force down something caught in his throat. He glances up at the ceiling, searching for a fixed point, then scrunches his nose in a faint grimace, forcing himself to hold back the tears burning behind his lids, hot and unrelenting. He hasn't fully held her again.
He's still on the threshold. Always on the threshold, with her.
But when he turns back, the world stops…
Moiraine is looking at him.
Those eyes. Deep, impossibly alive, blue like the ocean at dusk, piercing him with such intensity that his breath catches in his throat.
"Rand," she whispers.
Her voice is hoarse, broken, pleading. His stomach twists with something physical, visceral, because even if there's a veil of disorientation in her gaze, he knows she's fully aware it's been him all along. And even more than that, she wants it to be him. She chose to be comforted by him.
And that realization overwhelms him with a sweet, shattering force. It hits him like a wave, makes his eyes widen, makes tears rise.
"I'm here, Moiraine. I'm not going anywhere."
And the moment he says it, he feels her melt. She closes her eyes. Her body sinks against him slowly, like snow surrendering to the first sun. He leans forward and gathers her in his arms, letting her fall into the delicious warmth of his body.
He lets her hand rest on his chest, lets her face settle in the curve of his neck. The faint brush of her lips against his skin every time she breathes sends shivers down his spine. And for one long, suspended instant, his mind slips into a place he rarely allows himself, a place where she moans softly beneath him, where his name is prayer and longing and surrender.
But he pushes the thought away. Buries it. Because those places belong to other nights, to a reality that does not yet exist, or that he dares not want.
Now she truly sleeps.
She's drifted into slumber gently, her breath calm, her face free of tension. Only then does he allow himself a deep breath. Only then does he allow a single tear to fall down his cheek.
In that moment, looking at her, Rand swears, silently, that if she ever needs this again: him, awake all night, watching over her, then he'll do it.
Always.
Because it's no longer just duty. It's becoming something else… a fragile, fierce need that's taking root in his chest.
And even if he's afraid to say its name, he knows it's there.
Light, he knows it's there.
Because every time the faintest breath escapes her lips, only then does he inhale.