There is a boy who stumbles on Fraser's Ridge one day —
and everything about that is an oddity. His accent approximates British, but if asked he doesn't seem to recognize the place. Or this place, for that matter. There's a bow at his back and a well-crafted sword at his hip, though the latter he all be refuses to be parted with. He doesn't give a name, wary as he is of everyone; but root of it seems to be more fright than anger. He isn't aggressive at all, flashes of politeness he can't seem to help when he does speak.
And he's in clear need of help: weary and sweaty and filthy, a fresh wound at the neck that's still seeping blood. The last thing is what finds him left in a room to wait for Claire, a chair by the window he ends up accepting by sheer exhaustion more than anything else.
When Jo and Kezzie come to get Claire, she immediately senses something is amiss. The twins, aware that Jamie is away in town on business, offer to stick around outside the door if need be--and while she declines that offer, she does direct them to help some of the younger boys with mending fences. Near, but not hovering. Not inviting danger. Not frightening someone already described as scared.
So, when Claire steps into the surgery, she's alone. The twins had warned her about the stranger's injury, so she reaches for a clean cloth on her way over to where he sits.
"Hello there," she offers kindly. "I'm Claire. A healer. You've been through it, haven't you?"
He looks up when she enters, straightening in his seat, and watches as she approaches. He's seen a lot more of the world since seeing home than he'd ever expected — has yet to grasp just how far he is right now — but Claire doesn't seem so terribly different from any of the goodwives of Emond's Field. Which is likely why he asks,
"A healer. A Wisdom?"
Even though he knows the role of village healer has as many names as places. Homesickness speaking more than sense, is what it is. That and practicality keep him still as she comes to look at the injury. It's not terribly deep, but is the clean, deliberate slash of a knife. A healer's help and the possibility of some rest outweigh his dislike of lingering anywhere among strangers, even if he is lost. He can try to find those stones later, surely.
No. Foolish to think she'd recognize the name, and foolish to want her to. He'd know by now if he were anywhere near home, and even if he were, what could he do? He can't go back to see his father any more than he can let himself seek out his friends. The disappointment flickers across his face, but he nods at her question. He isn't relaxed — still wouldn't be entirely surprised if she did turn around and try to hurt him — but willing to let her get on with it, so long as that doesn't happen.
"Rand," he adds, belated. "That's my name."
(Lews Therin, the apparition with the burning eyes had insisted on calling him in dreams. And that was his name once, but not in this life; not now.)
"Rand," she repeats, and with permission granted in that nod, she steps closer to begin to examine his wound. More blood than actual damage, Claire thinks, and she begins to gently wipe away what she can even if the wound still weeps, trying to gauge how recent this was.
It can't have been more than a day since he left the Eye of the World, neck freshly hurt and that the least of his problems. He's hardly started considering what happened there, what he thought would happen there, and what it means for him. He's hardly considered the flood of revelations that came before, too. In truth: he hadn't even expected to survive that day, and now...now he's here.
Her question is a normal one to ask, but he still hesitates before saying, "Taren Ferry. It's small. You won't have heard of it."
Not much of a lie, in truth — he grew up within a day's ride of Taren Ferry, much as that had once been the far limits of his known world.
"You're right, I haven't," she says with a crease in her brow, one hand moving to gently guide him to lean a touch so she can better work on cleaning the wound. Her eyes flit from his neck to his face as she continues. "This is Fraser's Ridge. Near Wilmington."
He seems like an English boy, and she doesn't know of any settlement called Taren Ferry. Not beyond the realm of possibility for her to not know, of course, but strange. "What happened to you, Rand? This is a wound caused by a blade."
Wilmington is so unfamiliar that he frowns despite himself, eyebrows drawing together, even as he moves to accommodate her. He's not so familiar with the Borderlands, but neither name she offers sounds Shienaran, and the truth is that the place where he'd woken hadn't resembled the place where he slept. Which seems mad, but after the last day, days, more than a month —
The truth is that he doesn't know what happened. He hadn't noticed the sting at his throat until trekking through the Blight, trying to find an exit that takes him away from Fal Dara. But there's a flicker at her question, here and gone bitter humor. Did someone attack him? Well, only the Father of Lies. If he doesn't see a Trolloc or Fade or Darkfriend in the next few days, it'll be the longest he's gone since before Winternight.
"Nothing happened," is an obvious lie, but his jaw sets in a way that probably hints at his commitment to saying so. "An accident."
"This nothing sort of accident could have been fatal. But, as it is, I think a few stitches will take care of it." The worst, really, is her needing to clean away dirt, sweat, and blood.
Should have been, maybe, but that isn't a thought to share with a woman he's just met. Least of all because he'd have to explain why, and that — is something else not meant to be shared. It's a relief when she moves past the subject.
Even if his stomach does rumble embarrassingly at the thought of something to eat. Still, he admits,
"I don't know if I can pay you back for it. Or for this." A fine thing to admit while she's already at work. Though he adds, "I can make myself useful. If there's anything you need."
He's well-versed, by now, in working to pay off these kinds of favors.
Well, she does a good job at heading off argument, doesn't she — he opens his mouth to retort and has to wait till she's done with that instead. He flinches, reflexively, but otherwise lets her get on with the work.
"I've said I can't pay you back," he insists when she's done with that. "I meant it."
The kindness of strangers has extended to the occasional scarf against the wind, roof or food in exchange for either work or coin. More often grudgingly given than not, being honest. Things that seemed too good to be true typically have been. So what could she want? He doesn't want to try seeking out another homestead, but he will if he has to.
"And I said there's plenty to go around. Food, beds. You won't be inconveniencing anyone," she assures him, voice stern. One bottle is set down for another--whisky--and she offers it to him.
She's being kind, but isn't exactly being kind about it. Reminds him of Moiraine more than any Darkfriends he's ever met. There's the briefest of moments where he thinks light, I hope she isn't an Aes Sedai, but no, there's not a one among them who'd thread a needle for stitches when she can Heal. And her demeanor might be a small thing to rule out Darkfriend with, but they've usually tried to lure with honey, not vinegar.
He has to rest somewhere. All the better if it's not another bale of hay or cold patch of earth.
So he says, "All right," and accepts the bottle with a grimace. (For the procedure ahead, not the alcohol.)
Luckily for him, the stitches are few and mostly precautionary. Still, it's never nice to have needle and thread going through your flesh, and so Claire gives him a moment before she begins, hands experienced and as gentle as can be given the need.
"How old are you?" She asks, because why not hold conversation while working on him? He seems young. But the older she gets, the more often people seem too young.
He does his best to hold still for Claire. It's not comfortable, but also not the first time he's ever needed stitches. Her hand is as steady as his father's — a pang of homesickness — and her conversation is more pleasant than Nynaeve's scolding (another pang, truthfully).
"Twenty," he says.
Old enough to be of marriageable age in Two Rivers. In another life, he and Egwene might be planning their wedding now.
Younger than Bree. Closer to Marsali's age--she might be one to set upon him if he chooses to be stubborn about accepting food and a bed, but Claire's hoping to have this under control. He's obedient thus far, but she's also passing a needle through his skin. It makes people less eager to argue with her.
"And alone?" The twins hadn't reported sign of anyone else. They would know.
And that accounts for part of his defensive prickle, anyway. Easy enough to imagine her claiming otherwise. The other part being, of course, that he has no interest in explaining how he came to be alone, or if he'd ever traveled with others.
"I'm just making sure it's alone by choice and not something else," she replies. It's just a few more moments of discomfort before she deems herself done, tying the end of the sutures and going over to her collection of salves to find one to put on top.
"People don't often come to the Ridge if they're out to see the world."
"It was my choice," he says, fervent. That much is the truth; he'd chosen to leave his friends safely — relatively safely — in Fal Dara. He'd chosen to leave the Eye by himself and let them think him dead. If it had been up to them, things would have been different. But he couldn't let them pay that cost.
"Why not?"
That unfamiliar name again, the Ridge. It'd be good to learn more about it.
"This is where people come to settle down. Not your long-term goal, I can tell," she murmurs, carefully dabbing her healing salve onto her stitchwork at his neck.
"But you won't find anyone trying to chase you out."
Light, she means well. He straightens hastily, apologizing, as soon as he manages to pull himself together. No one will try to chase him out, unless they find out who and what he is.
But he'll make sure it doesn't come to that.
"Sorry," he says again, and, "Thank you. Are you done?"
"I suspect I better be, before you barrel me over in your haste to escape me," she says, teasing, but maybe not entirely lacking seriousness. She steps back to wipe her hands.
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and everything about that is an oddity. His accent approximates British, but if asked he doesn't seem to recognize the place. Or this place, for that matter. There's a bow at his back and a well-crafted sword at his hip, though the latter he all be refuses to be parted with. He doesn't give a name, wary as he is of everyone; but root of it seems to be more fright than anger. He isn't aggressive at all, flashes of politeness he can't seem to help when he does speak.
And he's in clear need of help: weary and sweaty and filthy, a fresh wound at the neck that's still seeping blood. The last thing is what finds him left in a room to wait for Claire, a chair by the window he ends up accepting by sheer exhaustion more than anything else.
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So, when Claire steps into the surgery, she's alone. The twins had warned her about the stranger's injury, so she reaches for a clean cloth on her way over to where he sits.
"Hello there," she offers kindly. "I'm Claire. A healer. You've been through it, haven't you?"
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"A healer. A Wisdom?"
Even though he knows the role of village healer has as many names as places. Homesickness speaking more than sense, is what it is. That and practicality keep him still as she comes to look at the injury. It's not terribly deep, but is the clean, deliberate slash of a knife. A healer's help and the possibility of some rest outweigh his dislike of lingering anywhere among strangers, even if he is lost. He can try to find those stones later, surely.
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"Wise woman, some say. Either way, I suppose you might know I'm here to help you. May I touch your neck?"
Better to be careful, she thinks. Build some sort of trust, or at the very least make it plain as day she means no harm.
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"Rand," he adds, belated. "That's my name."
(Lews Therin, the apparition with the burning eyes had insisted on calling him in dreams. And that was his name once, but not in this life; not now.)
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"Where are you from?"
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Her question is a normal one to ask, but he still hesitates before saying, "Taren Ferry. It's small. You won't have heard of it."
Not much of a lie, in truth — he grew up within a day's ride of Taren Ferry, much as that had once been the far limits of his known world.
"Where is this? I think I got lost."
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He seems like an English boy, and she doesn't know of any settlement called Taren Ferry. Not beyond the realm of possibility for her to not know, of course, but strange. "What happened to you, Rand? This is a wound caused by a blade."
Just so he knows she knows.
"Did someone attack you?"
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The truth is that he doesn't know what happened. He hadn't noticed the sting at his throat until trekking through the Blight, trying to find an exit that takes him away from Fal Dara. But there's a flicker at her question, here and gone bitter humor. Did someone attack him? Well, only the Father of Lies. If he doesn't see a Trolloc or Fade or Darkfriend in the next few days, it'll be the longest he's gone since before Winternight.
"Nothing happened," is an obvious lie, but his jaw sets in a way that probably hints at his commitment to saying so. "An accident."
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"Are you hungry?"
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Even if his stomach does rumble embarrassingly at the thought of something to eat. Still, he admits,
"I don't know if I can pay you back for it. Or for this." A fine thing to admit while she's already at work. Though he adds, "I can make myself useful. If there's anything you need."
He's well-versed, by now, in working to pay off these kinds of favors.
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"There's plenty to go around. You'll repay me by not creating more work. That means resting after I'm done with you."
Claire doesn't sound like she's willing to listen to any arguments.
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"Resting? I thought you just said it wasn't that bad."
Which he believes, honestly. He's had worse with normal childhood scrapes around the farm, playing in the mountains.
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"It's not. But you look like you could use a bed. Am I wrong?"
She wets her cloth.
"This will sting."
And that would be her cleaning the wound with alcohol, now. Sorry, what was that? Did you want to reply, Rand?
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"I've said I can't pay you back," he insists when she's done with that. "I meant it."
The kindness of strangers has extended to the occasional scarf against the wind, roof or food in exchange for either work or coin. More often grudgingly given than not, being honest. Things that seemed too good to be true typically have been. So what could she want? He doesn't want to try seeking out another homestead, but he will if he has to.
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"Here. You'll want a drink before I begin."
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He has to rest somewhere. All the better if it's not another bale of hay or cold patch of earth.
So he says, "All right," and accepts the bottle with a grimace. (For the procedure ahead, not the alcohol.)
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"How old are you?" She asks, because why not hold conversation while working on him? He seems young. But the older she gets, the more often people seem too young.
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"Twenty," he says.
Old enough to be of marriageable age in Two Rivers. In another life, he and Egwene might be planning their wedding now.
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"And alone?" The twins hadn't reported sign of anyone else. They would know.
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And that accounts for part of his defensive prickle, anyway. Easy enough to imagine her claiming otherwise. The other part being, of course, that he has no interest in explaining how he came to be alone, or if he'd ever traveled with others.
"I wanted to see more of the world, is all."
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"People don't often come to the Ridge if they're out to see the world."
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"Why not?"
That unfamiliar name again, the Ridge. It'd be good to learn more about it.
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"But you won't find anyone trying to chase you out."
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Light, she means well. He straightens hastily, apologizing, as soon as he manages to pull himself together. No one will try to chase him out, unless they find out who and what he is.
But he'll make sure it doesn't come to that.
"Sorry," he says again, and, "Thank you. Are you done?"
come in a year late with starbucks (expired)
"Come. I'll get you some food."
She turns, expecting him to follow.