A/N: Yeah. I can't believe I just wrote this. Sorry, this plot bunny just came up and started gnawing on my arm in the form of an adorable puppy named Keely. I couldn't resist.

So here it is.

Maybe I'll convert somebody to Faileism?

But not likely.

Faile's eyes snapped wildly open, and she sat up, slicked with sweat and feeling as if she had run ten miles. She was lying on the floor in Moiraine's room. It was then she remembered. Running in, angry, and then suddenly stumbling and falling, grasping at the bed, her fingers

closing on moonbeams, not responding to her efforts. Then everything had gone black. Until now.

She turned her head and saw the hedgehog. She remembered something about it, something about wondering why on earth Moiraine would have a wooden hedgehog sitting on her floor - but now it was broken in two, utterly ruined. It was then that she saw the blacksmith. No, Perrin, she thought. Somehow she knew that she had been in terrible danger, and that he had rescued her. For that, he deserved his name. For a while, at least.

He looked awful. She seemed none the worse for wear, not scratched or scarred in any way, but he was covered in blood, streaming in ribbons from cuts down his arms, his shoulders, his face. He was curled on the floor, his hammer close at hand, that strange hammer that looked even more natural in his big hands than the axe he carried. A blacksmithwith an axe. It was a puzzle, and Faile did not like puzzles that she could not figure out. But her hands fluttered to her mouth, and that was forgotten momentarily in the light of his present condition. Light! Where had she been, for him to have been hurt so badly following her? Why had he followed her, anyway? He had shown no sign of being interested...

She stopped that line of thought, quashing it ruthlessly. That didn't matter right now. All that mattered was staunching the flow of blood. Was he even alive? She pressed her fingers to his throat, suddenly afraid, but there was his pulse, beating away strongly. And pulsing out his life's blood with every beat.

She tore a strip off her dress with a wince - it was not her only dress by far, nor was it particularly fine, but it had cost her at least twice what it was worth. But this was more important than money or dresses. She lifted his head onto her lap, stroking his curls away from his forehead. They were matted with drying blood, too, and she glanced at the wounds on his scalp. Ribbonlike cuts running through the skin, almost as if talons had been dragged across his scalp. A falcon's talons.

She shivered and shut that thought away, focusing on tenderly wiping the blood away from his face. Gently, she thought. Careful. He may not be ready to wake, yet.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, his eyelids fluttered. He murmured something and opened his eyes, looking straight into hers with those eerie yellow orbs. Hardly eyes, she thought. Then she caught herself, remembered the blood she was sponging from his wounds, and she met his gaze evenly, realizing the beauty in the way the light glinted off the gold in his eyes. Not yellow, gold. Just as this man, this blacksmith, was no common metal, but truly gold. A puzzle, indeed.

He moaned, softly. She never would have heard it, but she felt a small jolt of surprise. With the cuts he had suffered, he should have been screaming. Maybe he was in shock. Maybe, but she did not really believe it, and her admiration grew. "My blacksmith," she said softly, bending over him to wipe the blood from his chest. "My poor Perrin."

He turned his head with an effort - she heard him grunt - and let out a sigh of relief when he saw the broken hedgehog. Then he leaned back his head, his bloody hand reaching up to touch her cheek. "My Faile," he said. "My falcon." Then his head fell back down, and he slept, curling up in her lap.

She tore off a few more strips from her dress and bound the worst of his wounds before cautiously lifting him and tucking him into Moiraine's bed. No doubt she would be angry, but Faile didn't really care. She thought she could easily stand up to an Aes Sedai for the man that she already thought of as her Perrin. Her husband, even. Maybe it was simply fascination, and he was hardly a suitable choice for her (not that she really cared too much about that title she bore), but it felt like something more than that.

Faile stayed up late with Perrin, listening to his breathing slow and grow more even, less pained. Perhaps she would ask Moiraine to see him Healed. But then again, perhaps not. Taking him under her wing would give her an opportunity to be close to him, to know him and understand more of this puzzle of a man. To touch him and admire his fine shoulders. Faile blushed at that, but only a little. After all, she was no girl, not any longer.

She smoothed his hair back as night drew on towards day and the booms and thunders of the battle she had ignored quieted to silence. Bending over him, she kissed his forehead on a place where there was somewhat less blood, and whispered, "Perrin, blacksmith, you will be mine. Someday we will marry. You may not know it yet, but you - will - be - my - husband. She touched her breastbone and bowed to his prostrate figure. "This I swear, by my Hunter's Oath."

Then she turned on her heel and marched from the room, attempting to be bold and resolute - but she could not help turning back at the door, to watch him sleep, half hoping he would open her eyes, forcing her to return. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally whispered, "I love you, Perrin Aybara. I love you, woolheaded blacksmith that you are."

Then she turned and faded into the hallways, returning to her rooms to sleep. And to brood on the puzzle that was Perrin Aybara. She smiled at the thought. A blacksmith's puzzle.