Disclaimer: I don't own FMA, or any of the concepts from 'The Wheel of Time'.
Note: Recently Robert Jordan, author of the series known as 'The Wheel of Time', passed away, not long before the final book of his series was expected to be released. As it stands, he was sick for a long time, and apparently managed to write enough notes about the ending that someone else should be able to finish it for him. This fic is not a WoT fanfiction, but the idea for it is actually based on a repeated concept in WoT.
The idea is that time is a wheel that continues turning. Since the wheel is a circle, it is a way of saying that time has no end. As ages come and go (I suppose, in a way, similar to our Bronze Age and Iron Age ideas, except to do with the history of the time, rather than the technology, eg. The Age of Legends) heroes may be born, and those who prove themselves in life, or have a large impact on the world, may find that their lives are tied to the wheel. A person with their life tied to the wheel will, sometime after death, be reborn, over and over. In between lives they remain in a dream world called Tel'aran'rhiod, where – no matter how many lives they have lived, and how many names or faces they have had – they are always the same person.
Birgitte Silverbow and Gaidal Cain are two heroes whose lives are both tied to the wheel, and to each other. In every life they live out, Gaidal is born first, ugly and rough, and some time later, Birgitte is born. They will invariably fall in love, whether they love from first meeting, or whether it's a long chase, and both are skilled warriors. This story is not about another one of their lives, but rather following a similar concept.
I had issues keeping the characters IC, but I think that if they were raised in different contexts they would behave differently anyway. I've tried to keep them as like their originals as possible.
Happy LingFan Day (2nd Nov.) everyone!
"Til Death Do Us Part" by Dailenna
When they first met – an unlikely duo – they had little interest in each other beyond the stoic glace she gave his feet, and the disinterested nod he returned. There was nothing to draw them together – no attraction, no instant sense of camaraderie – to say that they could be more than acquaintances. He imperiously brushed his black hair from his face, and his eyes continued past her to the older man standing there. Surely this weathered fellow would have more of an impact on his life than the little girl standing before him.
They met, and that was it. There was nothing romantic or action-packed about their meeting. Nothing that would have prepared them for the lives set ahead of them. As small children, how could they be expected to notice destiny lying before their very eyes?
It was a war beyond all others, where the veterans were in their element, and even unseasoned fighters felt as though they had seen all of this before. Trefaan looked to his side, where Lorie Fiergh waited in anticipation. Both of them had their swords at the ready.
"It's just like one of the practice skirmishes, isn't it?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied, eyes on the commander before them. "Except there is a higher chance that we will die."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Trefaan said, and quieted quickly when the commander began to speak.
The man reminded the troops of their strengths, and the need to stick to them, and he gave encouragements. He rode back and forth on his horse, letting his voice reach all of the people there, ready to fight. It wasn't long before the whole lot of them felt as though the enemy were puny little ants, and they could step all over them, squishing the breath out of their bodies.
"We will march forwards, and show those people what it is to be Drachman!"
The entire wall of soldiers burst out in cheers, calling as one for victory. Their legs worked together, making each step sound as though a giant jumped up and down on the ground, and the resounding echo rumbled all the way through the mountains. Before them, they could see the other army begin its advance, and Trefaan grinned eagerly.
Finally, they neared, and burst into a run, yelling out their own battle cries as they leapt over the rocks and snow. The soft sound of arrows being released began, and rippled through the people ahead of them, and Trefaan went to raise his shield, only to find it stuck. The buckle had caught to his hip.
"What are you doing?" Lorie yelled over the clamour.
"It won't move!"
"Quick!" She grabbed at his arm and pulled him under her small shield. Both of them ducked their heads under its protection.
Flit-flit-flit-flit.
The arrows rained down, a hail of them falling into the shield.
Thuk-thuk.
Lorie fell, an arrow in her leg and her lung, where the small shield hadn't been able to protect her. With her, the shield fell too, leaving Trefaan uncovered when the next volley of arrows shot towards them.
The forest was calm. Sunlight shone through the thick branches of trees down onto the two walking off the usual path. A bird twittered and flew above their heads to land on a twig.
Goorun's eyes followed the path of the bird, catching its gaze and holding it until he and his companion had gone past. He sighed and hitched up the pack on his back. Ieija glanced across at him with a look that anyone else would think was expressionless. Knowing differently, Goorun frowned when she looked away.
"You cannot keep looking at me that way," he told her.
"I am just making sure you are not about to fall into a faint." Her nose rose in the air. That face couldn't be called anything but upset, now.
"It was not my fault," Goorun said, referring to the event in the last town they passed. "You know that I am light-headed."
"And how conveniently so, when the innkeeper's daughter was by your chair."
Goorun scowled. It hadn't been his intention to plunge head-first into the girl's ample bosom, but the fates had intervened and brought a spell of dizziness upon him. He hadn't even been conscious when the fuss flared up, and that in itself had helped in settling the matter without a brawl. Nevertheless, Goorun had decided it was best for the townspeople and himself if he and Ieija moved on. The innkeeper's scandalised daughter hadn't been in the same room as him since the incident.
Neither during their departure, nor during the morning's travels had Ieija mentioned the incident, but now it was well past noon, and she seemed to have deemed it time to broach the subject.
"I have no control over my light-headedness," Goorun reiterated, "and if I did, I would have chosen to fall elsewhere."
Ieija 'hmph'ed and her arms began to swing more firmly with her stride, fists clenched.
"It is not my fault," Goorun said once again, and he didn't speak any more. Instead, he allowed an uncomfortable silence to hang between the two of them.
They walked deeper into the forest – or so it seemed to them. In truth, they had passed the halfway mark a half hour ago. The trees seemed to be getting further apart, but sunlight still dropped in small patches. The forest floor beneath their feet was damper in this area of the forest. Less trees evidently meant there was more than enough rain to go around for those present.
The atmosphere between the two parties remained thick and resilient as they progressed further. Ieija's stride remained strong, even as they came to a bog the two had to wade through. Each had their own staves with which to measure the depth of their path before moving ahead, and so communication with the other was not entirely necessary.
It was a surprise, then, when Goorun reached the end and turned around to wait for Ieija to catch up, and she was waist deep in a particular patch of bog. His own path hadn't been more than thigh-high at any point. Even this depth shouldn't have been too much hassle, so long as she found the next path to take. It would take a lot of strength and energy to move her legs when they were under all of that muck, but she had done it before, and she could do it again.
After much careful checking to find just the right path with her staff, Goorun was beginning to lose patience. He wanted to find somewhere to sit down and change into a new pair of pants and socks, but a sense of duty wouldn't let him freshen himself up while Ieija was still coming. Best be sure she doesn't step into a sink-hole and need help, he told himself.
A frustrated look was growing on her face as direction after direction yielded no results. Goorun had just taken the pack off of his back and leant it against a tree when he noticed something that made him yell out. Ieija, not having moved from where she stood when he turned, had sunk. What had previously been deep enough only to hide the curve of her hips now waited a centimetre at most from the bottom of her breasts. It was less than a hand in difference, but if she didn't move soon, it could result in a very slow and painful death.
Ieija's elbows, raised to keep her arms out of the bog and give them more freedom to move, were beginning to dip in the muck, and that frustrated look was a lot more panicked than Goorun had first realised. Taking up his own staff, he began to work his way back.
"Ieija?"
"What?" was the short reply.
"You can make it out of there, can you not?"
"Of course." She pulled her staff out from yet another path, yanking it hand over hand out from the bog.
Within minutes he was alongside her, although a few metres to her right. At this point of his path was the deepest he had been. The bog caked up his legs, overlapping the mud that had already half-dried. He slowly moved towards her, trying to put aside the unease he felt at moving deeper and deeper.
The bog was now inching over Ieija's breasts, and when she looked up to see Goorun up to his ribs, her eyes were wide and she was breathing heavily. "Do not be an idiot!" she hissed. "Get yourself out of here before you sink!"
He looked at her gravely, taking in everything while he still could. "Do you mean before I sink . . . too?"
Her teeth clenched together and she didn't answer, but her eyes remained on his. Her arms had stopped moving, no longer searching for a way out. Now they rested just on the surface of the bog that was eating at her bit by bit.
Goorun took another step in Ieija's direction, and felt his foot plunge down further than he had expected. His staff must have landed on the very edge of the path his foot just overshot. Now he could feel himself dropping slowly, and the slimy bog crept into the cracks of his clothing, bit by bit until his foot hit a solid bottom, just as the mud reached his armpits. He looked up to see the expression of abject horror on her face. She was struggling toward him fruitlessly.
"Stop!"
"You will drown," she cried.
"No, I have hit the bottom. It is just a hole in the path I was on," he told her, watching desperately for her to stop moving. "Stay still – you are just sinking faster!"
She slowed to a halt, and around them everything seemed to pause. Never mind that the birds continued their songs, and insects chirped. Their whole world had grinded to a halt, moving in only one direction: downwards.
Finally, he spoke up. "Take off your backpack so that it will not weigh you down."
He watched as she wriggled a little, and her hands pulled at the straps at her shoulders. "I can not. It is on too tight." She had always liked the straps of her pack to be tight, because it stopped it from bumping against her back quite so much. Now it seemed it would be bound there even as she died.
In measurement, she couldn't have been more than two metres away, but Goorun could feel her slipping further away as they stood there.
"Were you lying to me when you said you hit the bottom?" she asked, and for a moment her voice trembled.
"No."
"But you are still sinking."
It was true. Slow as it was, he was sinking just as truly as she was. Without his pack on his back he would last longer, but that hole his foot had found had shortened the time considerably.
Goorun could still feel his staff in one hand. The arm itself had mostly sunk beneath the surface, but he pulled it out with a squelching sound, and the other arm after it.
"What are you doing?" Ieija asked, watching in confusion as he yanked the staff out bit by bit.
Finally, the piece of wood was out of the bog, and, holding on to one end, he let it drop between them with a splat that sent droplets of mud over his face. Wordlessly, Ieija reached out and took a hold of the other end.
"Hold tight," he said, before gripping his end with both hands and heaving.
Their hands slipped, time after time, made slippery by the mud. Knobs and splinters on the staff ripped at the moist skin until both sets of palms were red and raw, and blood dropped in thick beads. Each tug cost more energy, and with every moment they sunk further.
The muck circled Goorun's shoulders by the time Ieija was within his hands' reach, and it was making it hard for his chest to expand and breathe. Ieija had been buoyed up a little by his efforts, but now sunk faster than before, as she could not quite reach the bottom. With her hands in reach, he now gripped at those and still pulled, slipping more and more. Tears trickled down both of their cheeks, and the bog had crept halfway up Goorun's neck.
As they got closer, and sunk further, she tried again to take the pack off, but it wouldn't move. She could reach out and touch Goorun's shoulder, but that would do her no good at this rate, buried as it was.
"I am sorry."
Ieija looked at Goorun in surprise. "Why? What are you doing?"
He reached out and put his hands under her armpits, lifting her up and towards him at the same time as pushing himself down.
"No! Stop! Goorun!"
"If I can just keep you alive a little longer . . ." he said as the bog swirled up to the bottom of his lip, and to the edges of his ears.
She squirmed to get out of his grip, face pale and eyes red and swollen.
"You are just making us sink faster," he said, spitting out a mouthful of mud.
Breathing heavily, she stopped. "I do not want to watch you die. Do not try to give me a few extra minutes just to see you breathe your last."
The pressure inside of his chest increased, and despite his own need for her to live, just that little longer, he stopped holding her up, and let her sink down a little, until she was almost level with him. He couldn't see her exactly, because his head was tilted back too far, but her hand gripped his arm tightly.
And all they could do was stand there and wait for death.
In a warm, cosy cottage, Rick leant on the edge of a crib, looking at the child inside. His eyes were bright – as were the little boy's – and a smile rested on his face. Unused to fatherly love himself, he didn't know how to act with his son, but ran a hand gently over the infant's soft head before stepping back.
Bella, his wife, came into the room, holding the latest pile of washing. Before they had married Rick hadn't been able to see her as the sort of woman to do all of her own housework, but she had taken up the job when it came. She wasn't the sort to back down from a challenge, whether she was used to its form, or it was completely new to her. Despite the doctor's orders, Bella had been back on her feet the day after the baby had been born, so that she could continue with her duties.
Now, she tucked the young one's fresh clothing into a drawer and turned back to meet the eyes of her husband for a moment before bustling back out. Rick frowned and followed her.
"Bella," he called. As he walked he pulled the nursery door so that it almost closed behind him, leaving it open so they could hear the child's fussing more easily. "What's wrong?"
She had stopped when he called her name, and had turned to face him. Quickly, she spoke in hushed tones. "The war is getting closer. The news from Helin this morning was that it had crossed the New Xerxian border last week, and has been getting closer with each day."
Rick frowned. This was sudden news for him. There had been no word from the government, no announcement that they should evacuate their homes. Depending on how fast it truly was moving, this could mean having to leave within days. The town leaders at the very least should have been on top of this, and preparing the village.
"Helin says that in Median City they are calling for more to join the military, and to subdue the attacking forces." She looked at him gravely. "Why haven't we heard any of this from here? We're not that far from the border ourselves, and from the way she was talking, we should have been able to hear the fighting from our windows."
Surely there were several reasons that they had not heard about all of this. The town leaders might have been trying to avoid a panic, and may be planning to get people out slowly. With the new influx of men joining in Median, fresh soldiers may have been on their way and about to push the invaders back out. Helin may have mistaken "close to the border" for "crossing the border". Anything might be true. It wasn't necessary that the only answer had to be the corruption lying within the government. Corruption couldn't spread to the extent of sacrificing towns of one's own country, could it?
Feeling slightly ill, Rick put his arms around Bella, resting his chin on her head. "I am sure that whatever happens, all will be well. The moment news of it hits the town, you will see just why it is being kept quiet, and if enemy troops try to press any further into New Xerxes, they'll find they have more than just men with weapons to fight against."
Night fell swiftly at this time of the year, and the family found themselves all tucked into bed early, lying awake and thinking about the impending attack. They could see it playing across their minds as accurately as though they had seen it before them already. Shouts and screams seemed to float through their heads as though the townspeople were really under attack, and the crackle of fires seemed so real.
By the time Rick had noticed that that splintering of wood was too close and too loud to be his imagination, there were voices filling his house. Bella lay woodenly beside him, her eyes unfocussed until he shook her by the arm and they snapped onto his face.
"They are here."
The sound of gunshots grew louder, and Rick felt, more than saw, Bella spring up, out of the bed. He barely stopped himself calling her back – the gunmen would be sure to hear that – when he realised that through all of the noise he couldn't hear his son's cry. With this racket, shouldn't the child have woken and begun to cause a stir? Bella seemed to have followed the same thought process as he had, for she wrenched open the door to their bedroom, and ran towards the nursery, down the hall. Rick finally got out of the bed and followed her.
He had just stepped into the hallway when at the other end, someone stepped out of the door of the nursery. Bella hardly had the time to stop in her tracks before gunshots sounded, and she dropped to the floor. Rick looked at her in surprise. She must have been playing. Bella – his indestructible Bella – would not go down that easily.
The thoughts barely had the time to flash through his head before the gun sounded again, flashing in the dark hallway, and Rick dropped just as quickly as his wife had.
In Morrow's mind, Aedin hadn't always been the unattainable. He didn't know where the feeling came from but he felt as though the roles they should play had almost been reversed. As he watched her coming down into the stables, where her horse had been readied for her, he told himself it was a stupid feeling and tried to shake it off, but it returned time after time. It was almost as though he could remember seeing her – well, not her, but it was still Aedin nonetheless – as she fought mercilessly just to protect him. That in itself was preposterous, because what barbarian would let a woman fight? It was the role of the males in society to protect others.
Their eyes met for a moment, as she set the mare off at a trot past him. Morrow watched her leave, and then went back to mucking out the stalls tiredly.
Aedin was too high-born for Morrow, a servant, to ever be a good match for her. The small fling they had been close to as teenagers was pulled apart by her father, and the man had arranged a marriage for her. To tell the truth, Morrow knew it wouldn't have been a fling. It couldn't have been, because Aedin wasn't just an object of lust for him. She could have been involved in any portion of his life, and she would have fit in with him marvellously. The two were alike in almost every way, except that Aedin was quieter, and Morrow was poorer. If society hadn't had a problem with it, they would have been able to fill in each other's differences.
Now, however, Aedin was married, and Morrow could do nothing about it. The Viscount was a possessive man, and when he was home Aedin may as well have been a prisoner in her own house. Morrow only ever saw her come out when her husband was away on business.
When the other stable-hand had gone to fetch fresh straw, Morrow moved quietly to the stall of Fiergh, Aedin's mare, and raked the place over with his eyes. In a matter of minutes, he had found what he was looking for. A white piece of paper poked its corner up out of the straw, looking for all the world as though it had fallen and the horse had kicked straw over it by accident. Morrow picked it up and put it in his pocket, returning to his previous chore before the other stable-hand came back.
The next break he had, Morrow pulled the paper out and unfolded it quickly.
Tomorrow Griche will be in Creta. I am planning on visiting my aunt.
It was one simple line, but it made Morrow smile. When they were younger, they had found it amusing that 'Tomorrow' was one space away from 'To Morrow', and it had become mandatory for her letters to him to begin with the word. Morrow knew that the Viscount was, in fact, planning on being in Creta that day, and so that meant that Aedin would be at her aunt's now, as well.
With practiced movements, he saddled the spare horse, and rode out before the other man at work could even notice him. This particular aunt, whose luck had failed long ago, was teetering on the brink of wealth and poverty. She understood the plight of the poor better than any other aristocrat Morrow knew, and sympathised with Aedin and Morrow, as she did not like the Viscount in the slightest. As such, her estate was a safe place for them to be in company with one another.
When Morrow arrived, the two women were waiting in a sitting room.
"You're late," Lady Raffelas said.
"My apologies, Ladies," he said, bowing over first Lady Raffelas' hand, and then again over Aedin's, a touch slower.
The Lady continued. "It is just as well – the Viscount was paying a visit."
Morrow looked up sharply. "To what purpose?"
Her mouth set grimly. "He did not believe Aedin was here alone, and sought to find the truth himself. It must have taken half an hour to convince him to return home – it appears that Creta was just a disguise so he could 'catch her in the act'."
"In that case I'm glad I waited until my break to read your note," Morrow told Aedin, seating himself by her.
Aedin said nothing, her contemplative gaze kept firmly on her hands. Her silence spoke of the heavy thoughts she must have been having.
"He didn't threaten you, did he?"
"Not . . . not directly," she told him. "But I must tread lightly from now."
Morrow returned from this particular visit early. The Viscount was suspicious and jealous enough already, without his stable-hand being missing for hours, at the same time as his wife was away from home. To the man's credit, he had not demanded Aedin return home with him, and so maybe he wasn't as forceful and unpleasant as Morrow had entirely believed.
He pondered this idea as he put away his horse's gear, not noticing the Viscount behind him with his hunting rifle. The butt of the gun slammed down into Morrow's head hard enough to splinter his skull.
Aedin did not hear of the incident upon her return home. She noticed Morrow's absence when the other stable-hand came forward to stable her mare, and thought that Morrow must have been staying away from her for a while, to avert suspicions. The Viscount did not make mention of what had happened to her, and for three days she was ignorant, until a visit to the stables led her to ask the other man where the black-haired stable-hand had gone to.
"He died, milady," the man said, straight faced. "There was an accident just a few days ago."
Horrified, Aedin rushed to her chambers, and planned how she would take her own life rather than live with the Viscount and never see Morrow again.
"Kata! Duck down!"
She didn't even turn to find the reason why, but instantly ducked her head. Kata had long leant to trust the instructions Frederik gave her, and it had saved her lots of pain and suffering. It came especially handy in times like these, when voices roared out battle-cries all around them, and if one wasn't careful, a pothole would appear suddenly beneath one's foot and break an ankle in the middle of a charge at the enemy.
The shield on Kata's arm bucked back as a small succession of near-misses struck it. A few arrows that would have made their mark flew over the top and buried themselves in the ground behind her. Kata muttered up a praise of Frederik's timing before daring to peek over the rim of her shield and resume the charge towards the enemy army.
Frederik must have been twenty metres ahead of her, leaping over the fallen, and nimbly picking his way towards the cluster of archers who didn't notice him approaching – their eyes were focussed on the main body of soldiers as they readied the next volley. Sword in hand, Frederik would be upon them before they noticed his presence. When they did, however, they would fight back, and they out numbered him sixteen-to-one. Kata started forwards, intending to even out the odds.
Her eyes remained steadily on Frederik, wavering only so that her feet would land on solid ground, rather than one of those damned potholes, or a soldier who had earned his military burial. The clamour of the fight echoed behind her, and she didn't hear the tread of another set of feet behind her.
With one swing of his blade, a captain brought the commander to her knees. Shocked, her hands strayed to the spreading patch of blood at her side, and she turned to see the face of her attacker. His own face was pale, and his eyes were wide in horror, like a boy making his first kill. A greenish tinge settled on his cheeks, and she waited for him to lean over and heave his stomach out through his mouth. To her surprise, he did not.
The pain in her side overwhelmed the adrenaline pumping through Kata's veins, and she dropped onto her back, gasping intermittently. Blood oozed through her fingers, and the bands holding her shield onto her arm cut in as they didn't when she was in the midst of battle.
The man kept staring, and Kata growled. "If you're not going to finish me off then help me up – I have a job to do here."
It seemed her words startled him, for he raised the sword he had been holding limply, and stepped forward to place the blade at her neck.
A wry smile settled at the corner of her mouth, and she closed her eyes slowly to await her death. It seemed that Frederik would need someone else to come and help him, if this one had made up his mind.
With her eyes closed, Kata did not see that just as the captain drove his sword into her neck, severing the main artery and her spine, one of the archers Frederik ambushed had gained enough wit to draw his dagger and plunge it into the swordsman's heart.
When they first met – an unlikely duo – they had little interest in each other beyond the stoic glace she gave his feet, and the disinterested nod he returned. There was nothing to tell them that this would be the person who would bind them to life. There was no hint that each would die for the other time and again. Nothing showed them that their love, as quiet and subtle as they kept it, would carry over centuries and countries. All they knew was that they would be together, until one or the other died.
Ling Yao and Ran Fan – bound in time, through life and death.