Jul. 13th, 2013 09:16 pm
blue_ajah: (lady in blue)
She has kept her silence for quite some while, knowing that the pace of time that passes between Twin Peaks and Milliways, and between Milliways and the world of her birth, is slowed and slowed again by factors she cannot explain. Still, it is no small gift, in that it grants her space in which to think and plan.

The Aes Sedai has used that time to study her options and the prophecies of the Karatheon Cycle, to dwell on the sound of the wind at night and her restless unease with every dawn. She has mulled over what Nynaeve had told her, and all the possibilities that the apocalypse at the bar at the end of all worlds may now have brought upon them.

("I cannot go back without undoing what was done. Can I?"

"That, I think, is mostly a question of how far back, yes? Or possibly it is a different kind of forward.")

There are other considerations to be taken into account, as it happens.

Dinner has become a habit for them, now, at least once or twice every week. It is her turn to host tonight, in the little house that she had begun to call her own. Moiraine has come to believe that she will always prefer tea, but she has developed something of a fondness for coffee all the same, and has been trying her hand at new ways of brewing it for these occasions.

The French press stands before her now on the countertop, and she slants a sideways look at him as she reaches for the canister that holds the coffee.
blue_ajah: (studying at her desk)
The journal lies open on the desk that stands in front of her window, one of several that contain her notes and the stories she has been slowly collecting over the past weeks and months. Her pen rests in the crease between the facing pages, ink still wet on its tip.


It is unlikely that you shall ever read this, as if what I have heard is true you now shelter in Light with Adeleas in the palm of the Creator's hand. Still, I more than most have reason to know that death is sometimes almost as fragile a thing as life itself, and so I write all the same, since in any case I do not think there is any harm in putting these words to paper. Perhaps, Light willing, there may even be some good to come of it.

It seems so very long ago that I came to your cottage in Tifan's Well searching for answers among the books and scrolls that you had gathered there. Now you are gone, and it is I who dwells in a little house, slowly crafting a small library of my own in the hope that somehow in so doing I will once again find the answers I seek.

(It is not the only collection of such things in this town, as it happens, but those secrets belong to others and I will not write of them here.)

I have often described myself as a student of history and a collector of stories, and there has always been enough of truth in that to serve, now more than ever. But I am not used to this, Vandene; almost all my past seeking for the Dragon Reborn and on his behalf was done while traveling the length and breadth of the lands and even beyond them, not while peacefully settled in a town such as this - that is, if there is another place quite like this, of which I am not in the least certain.

Nor do I know for certain if I am meant to find this answer, or in truth if there is anything to be found. There is no Gitara here, no Foretelling spoken, nothing but an occasional fleeting unease and the rare touch of disquiet that sometimes comes when the night breeze rustles through the branches of the Douglas firs and I find myself trying to understand its whispers, as if I were once again a girl listening to the wind.

Perhaps it is nothing more than the restlessness that can be expected from being at peace after so long, with the great work done. Although some would call it exile, I am not unhappy here, Vandene, far from it; I have found much here to cherish. It was you who once told me that to be Blue was to lose one's self in saving the world. You were more right than you knew, but I do not wish to risk such loss again now, not unless it cannot be avoided.

Still, there may be no cause to worry; my foreboding may merely be due to the ghosts of distant memory.

Light send it may be so.


blue_ajah: (black wings)
[After this.]

When Dale leaves, Moiraine sees him to the door and locks it after him, then returns to the sofa, where she curls up as she had been wont to do as a novice and sits quietly for a while, lost in her own thoughts.

Eventually, something occurs to her, and she glides down the hallway to her bedroom once more. This time, she retrieves Raven's feather from the pinewood box and holds it lightly in her hand, stroking it with the tips of her fingers.

How I wish I could speak with you.
blue_ajah: (shadowed serene)
She wakes early enough that it is still full dark outside, although the first stirrings of birds hint at the dawn to come.

Some few minutes later, Moiraine is seated at the small table in her kitchen, a cup of tea steaming untouched near to hand as she looks out the window, watching the trees and waiting for enough time to pass that she can make a phone call without waking the person she wishes to reach... and without disturbing his morning meditation session.
blue_ajah: (twin peaks sign)
Twin Peaks is a small town with a unique charm. Just ask anyone.

Part of the beauty of it is that you can do just that, and whoever you ask will be able to tell you pretty much whatever it is that you might be inquiring about. If you're looking for the town itself, well, it's easy to find -- located just five miles south of the Canadian border and twelve miles west of the Washington state line. If you're looking for somewhere to eat, perhaps to grab a cup of coffee or some of the best cherry pie to be found anywhere, why, the Double R Diner's the place to go, and you'll find that right near the corner of Main Street and Falls Avenue. If you're looking to stay awhile, almost anyone will direct you to the Great Northern Hotel out on the Great Northern Highway (opinions differ on which one was named first), near White Tail Falls.

Almost anyone, that is. After all, it might be the best hotel in town -- even if because it's the only hotel in town -- but occasionally the clientele at the Great Northern can be a mite peculiar.

(No more so than the owner, but then again, Ben Horne's peculiarities are well known. After all, he's one of Twin Peaks' own.)
blue_ajah: (Default)
She has closed the main switchboard for the day and is preparing to walk back to the apartment in the early evening, as is her usual habit.  When Moiraine leaves the sheriff's department, however, she finds that someone is waiting for her outside.  He looks up as the door opens, and nods a greeting.

"Give you a lift?"

The Aes Sedai does not allow her surprise to show, but inclines her head to him in turn.

"Thank you, Hawk.  I should be pleased to accept."

The trip is largely silent at first, save for the hum of the engine as he concentrates on navigating the road, still icy in spots.  She is not particularly surprised at this, as Tommy 'Hawk' Hill has always been inclined to be taciturn, insofar as she herself has seen.  For her part, Moiraine also remains quiet, observing the surrounding scenery with polite interest.

Eventually, he clears his throat.  "The dog's okay."

It needs no real thought for her to know what he is referring to; she herself had been the one to relay the call through dispatch that very morning.  A report of an attack by a wild animal, down at the lower edge of town.

"Is it so?" she replies.  "I am glad to hear it."

Hawk nods.  "It was starving; been through a hell of a time, from the looks of things.  Diane's looking after it over at the clinic now.   Says it's going to pull through just fine." A beat. "You knew it wasn't a wolf."

"I suspected," she tells him, with a very small shrug.  "It did not seem likely that it would be, from how the incident was described."  There is a pause, but her hesitation lasts only a fraction of an instant before she adds, matter-of-factly, "From what I have known of wolves, they would not behave in such fashion."

"Mmm."  Another beat.  "Used to be wolves around here, it's said.  They left, a long time ago."

"That might be considered something worth regret," she says, quietly.  "By some."

"Yeah.  By some."  He pulls up at the curb and puts the vehicle in park, although he leaves the engine running. "One of Diane's techs is moving down to Pullman for a while.  Vet school.  Washington State.  She's looking to rent her place." 

Hawk glances over at her. "Told her I might know someone who'd be interested."

"As it happens, you do,"  Moiraine murmurs.
blue_ajah: (Default)
Lucy had arrived without warning at the apartment shortly before noon, and five minutes later Moiraine found herself in the passenger seat of Lucy's car on the way to a Tupperware party at Norma Jennings' home.

Although it had been an extremely unusual experience, she cannot truly say that it had not been a pleasant one. At the very least, it might be considered a beginning step, of sorts, toward becoming an accepted part of town society.

The Aes Sedai suspects that may have been Lucy's intention to begin with, but she does not plan to ask. The only question that remains at the immediate moment is what to do with the few pieces of plastic dishware that she has acquired as a result.

At present, she is sitting in a chair at the small table in the dining nook, contemplating the potential for using Tupperware as a makeshift vase.
blue_ajah: (dark eyes aes sedai)
It happens slowly, as most things worth having do.

Moiraine has sorted through the clothes that Lucy bought for her with Harry Truman's money, selecting those that she feels comfortable with and carefully folding those that she does not. The latter she returns to the suitcase and stores at the back of the closet; the former she continues to wear. Long denim skirts matched with cotton and flannel shirts -- even though such things are a far cry from the silk and wool gowns of her youth and adulthood, she is able to adapt.

She is becoming accustomed to the deep and abiding restlessness that she thinks is a legacy of the habits of a life lived without peace, and finds ways to appease it. She spends time at the library, searching through dusty old histories and forgotten files. Eventually, after watching her work, the librarian's demeanor unbends from suspicion of an outsider into something of austere approbation, and Moiraine is given access to genealogical records and handwritten letters, as well.

Occasionally she meets with Pete Martell. She accepts coffee when he offers it -- by now she can even drink it without distaste, although she fears she will never have true affection for the bitter brew -- and listens to his story about the time the fish got into the percolator, as well as the other tales that come to his mind, of this and that family, this event and that story. There is much to be learned from such ramblings, she knows; and if there is something of comfort and familiarity in the seeking, it is something of a grace.

(Catherine Martell does not make her presence known during these meetings, although Moiraine is well aware that she is not unobserved. It is of no great import; she can wait, and has had enough of dealings in the past with similar individuals such that she is not overly concerned.)

Sometimes they play chess. She does not win every game, by no means, but neither does she always lose, and she thinks that the challenge pleases him. Pete tells her the names of others she might talk to in Twin Peaks and elsewhere, such as the library in Seattle and the historical collections there. The former she makes note of, with intent to follow up; when he mentions the latter, she nods and demurs, at least for now, the same as she does when he suggests that she might enjoy fishing.

On some days she walks in one direction or another (excepting always the routes which might lead to certain sycamore groves), breathing in the scent of the air and becoming accustomed to it. She does not drive, of course, and cannot truly fathom what might be involved in learning to do so, but it is of no matter, not at present.

She is content.

It is something of a surprise, when she realizes it.
blue_ajah: (dark eyes aes sedai)
[After this.]

When she returns from Milliways, Moiraine does not stay in the apartment for any longer than it takes to cross the room and walk out the front door. Two minutes later, she is gliding down the street at a brisk pace.

All things considered, it does not take her that long to reach the sheriff's station. Lucy blinks in surprise upon seeing her.

"Hi Moiraine -- are you looking for Sheriff Truman? I mean, probably you are, since this is the sheriff's station and all, and you haven't come by just to visit before, but I don't think he's here, or at least he wasn't here before, unless of course he came back while I was making another pot of coffee and is here now, in which case he is here, and if he is here, he'd be back in his office--"

"No, thank you, Ms. Moran-- Lucy," the Aes Sedai amends hastily, as Lucy opens her mouth again. "As it happens, I am seeking Dale Cooper; do you know where he might be found at present?"

"Well, he might be here too, except I don't think he is, unless--"

"Do you have some means of locating him?"

Mere moments later, the dispatch radio crackles to life.

"...Agent Cooper?"
blue_ajah: (something draws near)
It is quiet in the apartment.

Moiraine has settled herself by the window with a book, but the text is being ignored in favor of the view.

There is a thoughtful look on her face.
blue_ajah: (a shadow and a threat)
Upon her return from Milliways -- without difficulty, as it happens -- Moiraine makes use of the telephone a second time without delay.

One ring.

blue_ajah: (Default)
The Wheel of Time turns, and ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth returns again.

In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the mountains north of Arafel. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time.

But it was a beginning.

* * * * * * *

The wind blows steadily onward, sweeping down from the highest peaks and over the barren, stony surface of the lower mountainside. As it passes, a brightly-colored wisp of thread tumbles ahead of it, driven haphazardly over the ground by each uneven gust.

For all of its brightness, it is a ragged piece of thread, barely more than a loosely-gathered tangle of fibers; and yet, strangely, nothing seems to impede its passage. Once, as it fetches up against a boulder for a few seconds, the strands shimmer and seem to form into the near-translucent figure of a woman-- a shape lost to sight in the next instant as the wind gusts harder and tears the thread free.
blue_ajah: (dancing with fire)
She had carefully prepared herself before opening the door, knowing that she would have a mere instant at most in which to act. As Moiraine crossed through from Milliways into the Royal Palace of Caemlyn, she embraced saidar and channeled a second gateway into existence, so close beside the first that her single step carried her through both at once.

It had been a risk, certainly, and enough of one for her to have grown cold at the thought when she had first considered it, but in the end she had been right-- whatever strange powers the Milliways portals had of rendering themselves unseen by others had this time shielded the residue of her weave from detection as well. Thus protected, she had passed through unobserved, emerging beside a small, familiar thicket in the woods a few days' ride outside the city, well away from the Sunrise Gate. A sigh of relief escapes her at finding the hidden cache still undisturbed beneath the brush. Not long afterward, wrapped in a merchant woman's sensible brown dress and shapeless cloak, with her few belongings in a neat bundle slung at her hip, the disguised Aes Sedai walks briskly up the Erinin Road toward Aringill.


Matters in Aringill are tense; anyone can see that. Then again, matters are much the same everywhere as Tarmon Gai'don approaches; it is not as though she had expected anything different. A few careful inquiries are enough to assure her that there is no immediate danger. Despite the years she has spent in Milliways since last returning to her world, days only have passed here, if even that. Moiraine had suspected that would be the case; she had noticed before the slowing of time itself as the Dark One's strength continues to grow. Even Lews Therin himself had remarked upon it, once.

"How can one hope to preserve time when it is endlessly slipping away?"

Moiraine could not answer him then, but she has the answer now, or so she hopes. She knows what must be done, and she is willing to attempt it. Indeed, given Min's past visions and her own experiences in Rhuidean, the Tower of Ghenjei, and Milliways-- it may well be that she is the only one who can.

A few more inquiries lead her to a stable with a horse for sale, and to a shopkeeper with a stock of travel supplies and a good sense of discretion. Well before midday, Moiraine is on her way north.


The route she chooses leads from Andor to Cairhien, then across Cairhien and into the Borderlands-- first Shienar, then to Arafel, and finally into the mountains beyond. It is the most direct path she can take that does not draw too near either the battles along the Spine of the World or those at Tar Valon. Likewise, although the journey on horseback will be long, she dares not risk detection by weaving another gateway, nor can she chance passing through Tel'aran'rhiod-- especially as it is evident from the news Nynaeve had brought that the Forsaken now walk the World of Dreams largely unhindered.

As the days pass, her growing sense of urgency drives her to ride from the first light of dawn until deep into the encroaching dusk. She would push herself even harder, save that she knows that it will all be for nothing if she is exhausted when she arrives at her destination. At night, Moiraine takes care to conceal her camp, using every trick and technique that she has learned during twenty years of partnership with Lan-- who even in his absence guards her still, it seems, as much as he can.


The mountains north of Arafel are cold, desolate, and deadly. Despite that, Moiraine chooses the steepest, most dangerous, least-used path; it will give her the best chance to cross unseen, she knows. When the horse snorts and balks at the trail, wild-eyed, she cannot help but laugh. "You are clearly no fool; very well, let it be so. Our ways would have parted soon enough in any case." She strips it of tack, which she conceals under a pile of rocks, and turns it loose. As it wanders back down toward the lowlands, the Aes Sedai begins the climb on foot.

The going is painfully slow. At one point, she spends the better part of an hour lying flat in the dirt behind a narrow ridge a short distance above the trail, waiting for a fist of Trollocs to move past. It would have been longer, she knows, save that they are desperate to descend from the mountains before they themselves become prey to some of the things that hunt the heights. Moiraine decides that it is good fortune, of a sort-- the more so in that their stench and the noise they are making in their hurry will draw attention away from her, or so she hopes.

Evidently it works, as she reaches the top of the pass without further difficulty. As she starts down the far side, she keeps a sharp watch out for what she needs -- and all in all, it is not long before she finds a group of boulders that will serve. The Aes Sedai creeps carefully past them, hiding herself out of view from the trail. She sets her back against the stone for what protection it might offer, and looks out across the land to the north.

She has no trouble spotting it; there is, after all, very little remaining in the Blasted Lands that could block this sight. As Moiraine looks out at Shayol Ghul, the Dark One's prison, even all her years of training are not enough for her to repress a shudder.

One moment is all she allows herself, however; there is no point in hesitating, not when it has taken so long to reach this place to begin with and certainly not when every second brings more danger of discovery. She has come this far, and she will not be stopped-- not before doing what she must. The Aes Sedai takes a single breath, allows herself one last fleeting thought--

(--falter, fail, and all is lost -- oh Light, help me--)

--and then saidar explodes through her in a storm of power.

It had been Lews Therin Telamon, the Dragon himself, with the aid of the Hundred Companions, who had managed to patch the Bore drilled through the Pattern and into the Dark One's prison with a series of seven seals, ending the last War of the Shadow. Even had she anything approaching such strength, the backlash of power then had led to the tainting of saidin, the like of which no one can afford now. What is more, the seals are failing; she does not know how many remain intact, but with each one that breaks, the Dark One comes closer to reaching the surface of the world. It cannot happen; not yet, not before Rand is ready -- maybe not ever, truth be told, but how to stop it?

She had first seen the possibility in the futures shown to her in Rhuidean, although she had not truly been able to encompass its meaning then. It had become clearer to her during her time with the Aelfinn and Eelfinn in the Tower of Ghenjei, as she had observed how they were able to view details in the folds of the Pattern itself, but it had not been until Milliways that she had learned how to work with such complicated threads.

As she starts to channel, the ground begins to shake and the sky to darken. A furious snarl of Shadowspawn pours out of Thak'andar and toward the mountains, racing toward her; it is clear that she will not have long. She opens herself fully to the True Source, drawing saidar to the point where it is nearly unbearable -- and then even beyond that, further outward, demanding more. Sparks seem to shimmer at her fingertips as she struggles, reaching for something on the very edge of possibility.

Were she to have told anyone of her plan, the very idea would have seemed madness. The Bore is a hole in the Pattern, and the Pattern is composed of the threads of human lives. While it can be sealed with power drawn from the True Source, as Lews Therin had done, to truly mend such a tear would require new "cloth" to be woven. Such a thing is beyond her, of course, perhaps beyond any mortal effort; but after long years of study, there is finally one thing she can do -- and as she grasps her own thread in the nearest Mirror of the Wheel and begins to work it free, the world around her trembles.

"From place to place run the lines of If," she had once explained, "between all the worlds that might be." Every one of those possible worlds is her focus now -- or rather, the existence that she might have had in each. Using the trick of sight gleaned from the Aelfinn and the Eelfinn, as well as the skills painstakingly learned from Raven, Moiraine finds and pulls thread after thread from world after world, but drawing only a single one -- hers -- from each. She works with frantic speed, taking her own life over and over again and weaving each multicolored thread into a single shining patch for the Pattern itself.

It will not hold forever, she knows. Still, if they are all lucky, it will last -- she will last -- long enough. Enough for Rand to have the time he needs, for them all to have a chance -- for the world to, perhaps, survive. Long enough.

Minutes pass with agonizing slowness, until there is only one thread remaining. Moiraine does not hesitate; she sets her hands to the only life she has ever known and begins to twist, using her own future to fasten the patch into place. As she works, her form begins to blur, her appearance growing hollow and near-transparent, becoming insubstantial. She does not seem to notice, or to care.

She ties the weave and watches as it settles into place and remains intact, the patch held fast and secure. Smiling in triumph, Moiraine lets out a soft, relieved sigh and collapses to the earth. The last tiny wisp of thread escapes her fingertips and is carried away on the wind.

Instants later, her body dissolves into dust.
blue_ajah: (downcast glance with falling hair)
The study is a barren place, as compared to its appearance in days past. No books remain on the shelves, nor is there any other indication of her years-long residence.

(A locked wooden trunk rests now in the quarters she had long ago been given in the House of Arch. She had quietly seen to its placement days before, without mentioning it to anyone.)

Moiraine stands in the middle of the floor, a bright corona of light shining around her and a faint line creasing her forehead as she concentrates. It is delicate work, and slow, yet within the space of minutes all the layered wards and weaves that she has placed on the room over the years have unraveled and dissipated harmlessly under her direction.

She sighs, releasing saidar, and the golden aura winks out.

"It is done," she murmurs. "And now it is time."

The Aes Sedai picks up a bundle of letters from her desk, then glides smoothly across the room and out the door, closing it behind her.

For the first time in several years, it is left unlocked.
blue_ajah: (writing in her journal)
The letter is written on cream-colored paper in a careful, graceful hand, and sealed in blue with her personal seal.

It is addressed, quite simply, to Susannah.

Susannah )
blue_ajah: (Default)
Ask any of my characters a question, and they'll give an IC answer:

Moiraine ([livejournal.com profile] blue_ajah)
Jack Sparrow ([livejournal.com profile] pirate_jack)
Sam Winchester ([livejournal.com profile] gavemea_45)
Kim Ford ([livejournal.com profile] bannion_sight)
Gabriel Tam ([livejournal.com profile] gabriel_tam)
Frank Black ([livejournal.com profile] gifted_profiler)
Megwyn ([livejournal.com profile] not_a_horse)
Blodwen Rowlands ([livejournal.com profile] white_flowers)
blue_ajah: (studying at her desk)
She had considered going downstairs for the evening, but there is too much to be done, she feels.

Particularly given the situation with Kim Bauer, perhaps.

As a result, the Aes Sedai is instead ensconced in her study and working at her desk, sketching out notes on pieces of paper and searching through a number of books.
blue_ajah: (Default)
Moiraine's chambers in the House of Arch are well appointed and tasteful.

Still, to a discerning eye, it is apparent from the lack of personal touches that they are a guest residence and not a place where she stays enough to have become truly comfortable.
blue_ajah: (writing in her journal)
The following letter was sent with a rat for delivery, in response to a note received earlier.


I appreciate the information; quite a lot, as it happens. It seems that matters may not have been as dire as I thought.

Considering what you have written, however, I suspect that you may not be aware that this is not, in fact, the first time that such an encounter with Nyarlathotep has taken place. I do not fault you for trying to protect Simon; I myself was trying to protect others when I made my request, very similar to your own. At that time, however, the Lord of Nightmare granted those within the realm of the bar a night's peace, rather than removing himself entirely from them. From this you may see, I believe, that there is something of interpretation possible in what response may be given to a request made of even the dark aspect of Dream.

I will say no more on the subject, I think, save to say this: be careful. Being one of Dream's does not necessarily protect you from danger at the claws of the Lord of Nightmare, should his temper rise.

--Moiraine Sedai
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