New God(wheel of time)

Chapter 2: The Unseen BondThe morning light spread slowly over the dew-damp fields of Emond's Field, as if reluctant to disturb the fragile balance that had been so suddenly upended. In the wake of that strange dawn—when a being unlike any other had appeared before Moiraine Damodred—the village lay hushed, every creature and man sensing that fate had woven an unfamiliar thread into the Pattern.

Moiraine rode at a measured pace, her cloak fluttering in the gentle breeze, with the enigmatic stranger following closely on foot. His presence was quiet yet profound; he carried himself as though the weight of creation were both his burden and his birthright. Though he bore the appearance of youth—a smooth face untouched by worry and eyes that held no recollection of sorrow—an ineffable aura shrouded him, one that even the keen senses of the Aes Sedai could not fully decipher.

Moiraine's VigilMoiraine's mind whirled with questions as she guided the stranger along a narrow track leading from the outskirts of the village. Her thoughts were as restless as the threads of the Pattern itself.

Who is this child of creation? she wondered silently. He has no past, no memory—but his aura radiates a power so ancient it belies his unformed nature. Even now, I sense in him a spark of divinity that no mortal, or even channeler, has ever possessed.

She recalled the moment he had healed the wounded child by the market square—a quiet miracle, so gentle and unassuming, yet it had mended not only flesh but also the hearts of those who witnessed it. That act, so simple yet utterly ineffable, confirmed what she had long suspected: there was something beyond the ordinary about him. His skin seemed to catch the light, glowing faintly as though lit from within, and his eyes—clear and searching—revealed nothing of his origin.

"Stay close," she murmured, more to herself than to him, for even in his silent state he did not answer. There was an innocence in him, a blank canvas on which fate would soon paint the grand design of destiny. Though he did not understand, Moiraine felt an inexplicable duty to protect him. His power, she sensed, would attract forces both light and dark—forces that would seek either to claim him or to extinguish the divine spark he carried.

As they passed by a low stone wall where villagers were beginning their daily routines, an old farmer paused, leaning heavily on his walking stick. His gnarled face, weathered by years of tending the land, softened at the sight of the stranger. "By the Light," he whispered to himself, "I've seen miracles in my day, but none so pure."

A group of children, huddled together near the entrance of a modest cottage, watched with wide eyes as the pair passed. One timid voice rose, "Is he an angel?"

Another child replied, "No… not an angel. He is something else—something the old stories speak of, but never truly seen."

The murmurs of wonder and trepidation spread quietly through the village. Even those who had little knowledge of the One Power or the deeper mysteries of the Pattern felt that something ineffable had come to them—a sign, perhaps, that the world was on the cusp of great change.

A Quiet AwakeningWhen at last Moiraine and the stranger reached the threshold of a small, secluded clearing near the heart of Emond's Field, the hush of the morning deepened. Moiraine dismounted her horse, the soft thud of her boots on the earth mingling with the gentle rustling of the corn. She guided him to sit on an ancient stone bench, its surface worn smooth by the passage of many years and untold prayers.

"Rest now," she said quietly, "while I search for answers." Her voice was gentle yet imbued with the authority of one who had seen much and feared little.

The stranger looked up at her, his expression inscrutable, his eyes reflecting the pale light of dawn. For a long, suspended moment, neither spoke. In that silence, Moiraine could almost sense the stirring of his divine energy—a latent power that made him immune to the everyday woes of the world. No wound, no anger, no despair could touch him; his very being was woven of creation itself.

As the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, Moiraine knelt by his side, placing a hand lightly upon his shoulder. "You are safe here," she murmured. "At least for now. But know this: the forces of shadow and light are gathering. Trollocs will come, and with them, a darkness that even the Pattern struggles to mend. I cannot leave you to wander these dangerous lands, not until I know more of who—and what—you truly are."

The stranger nodded almost imperceptibly, a gesture that seemed to be more an echo of ancient instinct than of conscious thought. Though he lacked the memories of a past, he radiated a quiet assurance—a feeling that he was destined to play a part in the tapestry of destiny that even the Aes Sedai could scarcely imagine.

The Whisper of HealingNot long after, as the day advanced and the tension of an impending Trolloc attack began to rustle at the edges of the village, a cry of pain broke the stillness. A young woman, injured in a fall near the market, lay writhing on the ground. Moiraine's eyes widened with concern as she rushed to the woman's side, only to pause when the stranger stepped forward.

Without hesitation, he knelt beside the injured woman. His hand hovered over the wound, and a soft, almost imperceptible glow radiated from his palm. Within moments, the crimson stain faded, and the cut sealed itself as if mended by the very touch of the Light. The woman's cries subsided, replaced by a trembling gasp of relief.

A hush fell over the gathering onlookers, and for a time, the only sound was the whisper of the wind—a soft, sacred murmur that seemed to carry a promise of healing and renewal. Moiraine, watching this quiet miracle, felt both hope and a deep, unspoken caution. The power displayed was far beyond that of any ordinary channeler; it was the work of a being whose essence was intertwined with the very fabric of creation.

"Your gift is remarkable," she said softly, more to herself than to the stranger. "But you must learn control. These wonders may call forth envy or fear among men—and even among the Wise."

The stranger only regarded her with a calm, searching gaze, as though he already knew more than he could say. There was a purity in his silence, a promise of potential yet untapped. And as he helped the woman to her feet, the villagers, whose hearts were now aflame with a mixture of wonder and quiet reverence, began to murmur prayers to old gods and to the Maker.

A Tether of FateIn the quiet that followed, as the threat of Trollocs still loomed in the distance, Moiraine resolved to keep the stranger by her side. There was something about him that resonated with the deep, ineffable currents of the Pattern—a bond that she could neither deny nor fully understand. In his presence, she sensed both the fragility and the infinite promise of creation. He was a mystery—a new thread in the tapestry of time—and it was her duty, as a servant of the Light and guardian of the ancient ways, to nurture that thread until its true form could be revealed.

Moiraine stood, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the dark shapes of Trollocs began to stir, their monstrous silhouettes heralding the coming storm. "We must prepare," she said, voice firm. "I will not allow you to be lost to this world until you have learned your true purpose."

The stranger rose with her, moving with an unhurried grace that belied the power contained within him. As they walked together back toward the village, the sun climbed higher, and the world seemed to take on a new hue—one of promise and of foreboding in equal measure.

In that moment, as Moiraine's steady resolve and the stranger's quiet mystery merged, the threads of fate began to intertwine. The Pattern itself pulsed with anticipation, aware that something monumental had begun—a new age in which even a being without a past could shape the destiny of the world.

And somewhere in the vast weave of the Pattern, ancient voices stirred in remembrance, whispering that the age of mortal limitations was drawing to a close.