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The winds beat down on the slopes of the Dragonmount, scouring the entire mountain. The winds beat down upon the very place where the Dragon was reborn, heralding the salvation of the world and the end of the Age. Rand stood on a crag of the mountain, sorting through the various feelings he was experiencing. It was strange, to be at your place of birth and yet not be familiar with it.
Rand walked the slopes of Dragonmount slowly, waiting for his opponent. His hand felt the rough crags and smooth stone of the mountain, guiding him up toward the top of the great mountain. Three thousand years ago, Lews Therin had created the mountain in his grief over his lost love. His voice was especially strong today.
My Ilyena, it moaned, Oh Light, why cannot death take me now? Why do I deserve to live, while ones without fault have stayed dead? We are destroyers, you and I, nothing has ever come out of us that is good or righteous. The shadow of the Dragon is as terrible as the Dark One's hand.
Rand continued walking, his step strengthening even as the air thinned. He wasn't actually going to the top; that was probably impossible. Where he was going was where Moridin, or Ishamael in another life, was waiting for him. The dance of careful manipulation was over, and the dance of death had begun.
What a simple dance it is, simple and terrible. Why must the world always dance to its tune? Peace won't rest easily on the people, they come and trouble follows closely. Chaos is the only constant, and by its nature it isn't constant.
Out of my head! If you won't help me, don't hurt me! Lews Therin's presence seemed to pause from its madness, and Rand could feel it thinking. To his surprise, instead of his normal retreat, Lews Therin's presence seemed to draw itself up and make an effort at calm.
He is here. Ishamael. The first to leave the Light, and as powerful as I am. Yes, he has much to answer for. Lews Therin was obviously eager for revenge. Of course, Lews Therin was eager for other things, too. He wanted to kill all of the channellers in the world, not to mention break the seals. What sane person would want to do that? Of course, in Lews Therin's case the obvious answer was that he wasn't sane.
The sound of birds brought Rand back to the real world, out of the turmoil inside his head. He jerked up alertly, looking around to see if anyone was visible. Then the rock roared up in front of him and came crashing down.
Only quick reflexes, and some of Lews Therin's inherited knowledge, saved him from the falling stone. A knife of Spirit, so finely woven it strained even Rand, slashed through the weave of Earth and Spirit. The rising mass of stone froze and turned solid again, reforming and creating a massive block in the path. Rand walked around it, his head darted around looking for his adversary. Rand thought about the event that had brought him to the cold, desolate slopes of Dragonmount.
He had garnered some useful information from Balthamel. The greatest danger to him now was obviously Moridin, who was in Balthamel's mind definitely Ishamael reborn. However, the mystery of the Hand of the Dark, or Shaidar Haran, was an intriguing puzzle. His abilities, along with his role in things to come, would be unpredictable to the extreme. That meant Rand would have to deal with his immediate problem: Moridin.
A growl rose deep in his throat, but he snapped it down when he realized what he was doing. He couldn't let his anger get the better of him. Or rather, he couldn't let Lews Therin's anger get the better of him. As the path wound of, he saw Moridin.
To his shock, it was the man who had saved him in Shadar Logoth. His shock was soon abated as Moridin fired a stream of balefire at him. He dodged it easily, and then prepared something that Moridin couldn't withstand.
He had a small angreal with him, a shapely ring wrought in gold. It might have been small, but it was strong. It was almost on the level of a sa'angreal. He raised his hand toward Moridin.
" Die the final death!" Bars of molten fire, each as thick as an arm, shot from each of the fingers of his hand. They moved, unlike balefire, more fluidly. They twisted and curved, seeking Moridin as he tried to dodge them. They looked absolutely like balefire, though. Moridin obviously thought they were balefire, and desperately tried to attack. His hands came together, fingertips touching. A ball blacker than night formed between his hands, under his fingertips, and he screamed.
" The Great Lord will protect me!" The black ball began releasing small streamers of darkness, each like the blackest of threads. One of them hit Rand's side, and he gasped in agony. The black thread hit the old circular wound in his side and also impacted against the cut from the Shadar Logoth dagger. Amazingly, the two wounds released long black threads also, and the black ribbons twisted and danced. They writhed about for a while, and then began to dissipate. For the first time in a long while, Rand could feel no pain in his side.
Most of the beams of false balefire Rand had used had been shredded by Moridin, but one actually hit him. Its illusion was revealed, as instead of burning his thread from the Pattern it merely burned across his side like molten metal. Still, the thin bright trails of molten substance that were dripping across Moridin's side were devastating him.
A scream tore out of him, and he fell back and began shimmering. Rand couldn't detect Power usage, but Moridin disappeared all the same. This time, Rand had given him a wound he couldn't heal; one of the properties of the false balefire was an unusually high resistance to Healing. Unless one of the Forsaken had an angreal, and were willing to help him, he would carry the wound for a long time.
Rand opened his own Gateway, punching through the Pattern. He was exhausted and tired.
Place of my birth. But it will be another mountain upon which I will die. Unless... who knows? The Wheel of Time turns.
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