blue_ajah | (no subject)

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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.

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Raven nods once.

"Nita, too, yes."

He reaches out, very carefully, and pats Moiraine's shoulder.

"And all the rest, too, I am thinking."

It is, after all, one reason he loves people.

There are others.

"Yes."

At the touch she glances up again.

"It will happen again. I have known that for years, Raven. Years upon years. I have had time to come to terms with it, and to prepare for what I must do."

A pause, and then,

"But I did not expect this, now. Not to see the Shadow unveiled so."

There is a moment where Raven goes statue still, fire flaring sharp and hate-bright in his eyes.

He controls it.

Mostly.

His hand rests a little heavier on her shoulder.

"It is a terrible thing, that. And cruel."

He nods once, careful to keep his hand from gripping her shoulder hard enough to bruise.

"And for that, I think, there are not so often terms."

"Not for that, no," she says, studying him carefully now, given his reaction. "Never for the Shadow, never. Whatever the Dark One wishes, I oppose."

In this, there is no hint of doubt, not even the slightest.

"It is almost indiscriminate, that."

He huffs out a sharp noise that is not really a laugh.

"But possibly I am much the same--at least when it is That One."

He shrugs, body held carefully steady.

Control is a fragile thing, on occasion.

Particularly when Raven is angry.

"It is an old hate, and deep, perhaps."

She uncurls from the sofa corner, turning to face him and laying one hand gently on his arm.

"Raven, who sets things right," Moiraine murmurs, still watching him.

Raven nods once before slipping his arm away, turning his hand to twine his fingers with hers.

His gaze remains level and assessing.

"It is so, that. You know it well."

He manages another quick, slight smile, eyes wide and dark and very old.

"And even I, I am thinking, am difficult enough to see."

"You are no easy being, I will grant you that," she admits.

"And yet it is not the same, to my way of thinking."

He looks down, mouth still set in that wry, rueful curve.

"It is the terrible beauty, yes?"

His voice softens slightly at the next bit.

"And the Dark."

"More the latter than the former," she says. "I have known others who have used fair face to hide foul nature... even if never quite so terribly, awfully fair."

Raven huffs out a quiet breath, then shifts on the couch a little more, reaching out to tuck Moiraine rather firmly against his side.

"It is different, I think, for things that are not mortal. And That One has mostly never been so."

She tenses briefly, as though she would resist, but in the end does not.

There is something very, very dry in her voice-- almost acidly so-- as she says,

"And still, it is often the part of those who are mortal to face that which is not, for the sake of the world... and more."

Raven snorts.

It is a snort of utter disgust and contempt.

"And that, I am thinking, is because gods are often fucking stupid."

Beat.

"Also Powers."

Except maybe Peach.

Maybe.

"I do not know exactly why, and I cannot say that I particularly care, at present."

Her tone is flat, and very nearly emotionless.

"No."

His own voice is level, and black eyes are fixed on the crown of her head.

"But there are some, I think, who pay their own prices. So."

"Some."

Moiraine shrugs.

"When the price is high, that is how you know it is worth paying, Lan always says."

His arm tightens around her, and he leans against her a little more heavily.

"And this price that you have paid? This time?"

Moiraine shakes her head.

"It was not my price to pay," she insists. "Not this."

Raven nudges her with his shoulder, just a little, tilting so that he can better see her face.

"You are so certain of that?"

"I may speak no word that is not true," she reminds him, looking up.

"It was Nita's price."

And yet, even as she says it, she sees again in memory that bright, terrible beauty, hears the Whisperer's voice, sees Nita lying fallen on the floor at their feet.

"Blood on the rocks," Moiraine whispers, through a suddenly-tight, aching throat. "To save the world from the Shadow."

Raven's arm tightens further, and his eyes are wide and black as he looks at Moiraine.

His voice, too, is quiet.

"Blood, perhaps, is not always death. Not always."

He reaches out with one hand to tug, so very lightly, at her hair.

"And you, I think, are not as you were. It is price enough, that."

This time.

"For her it was," Moiraine informs him, and finally, finally allows herself to lean into the shelter of his embrace. "But she lives, now. It is more hope than I had thought to allow myself. That will have to suffice for anything else."

For everything else.

He leans a little closer, voice still so quiet.

"I do not think that is entirely how hope works."

He gives her a minute, or perhaps he takes one for himself.

"It is better, so."

Even when it hurts.

"I do not know. I had not expected--"

Moiraine pauses for a deep breath, then another, steadying herself.

"It was so like what yet lies ahead of us, in my own world, our own war, Raven. So like, in a sense, that I cannot describe it-- although the prophecies have."

Raven's hand is light on her arm, rubbing carefully.

It is an attempt to be comforting.

"Some things have patterns, on occasion. It is the trouble with prophecies."

Beat.

"And with echoes."