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“I don’t see why I have to do this.”
Verin makes a face she’s made a hundred times already, and will no doubt make a hundred more before Liandrin’s lessons are over. Frustration threaded through with slight amusement. “The fact that I’m your teacher and I’ve told you to do it should be enough, but I know it never will be with you,” she says, both sharp and fond at the same time.
Alarmingly, Liandrin often finds herself inclined to do exactly what Verin asks her to, on the first attempt of asking - a skill no other Aes Sedai can boast. Sometimes it unsettles her so much that she has to make herself disobey, just to feel a little more in control. So she argues back, “but why? I’m not training to be a gleeman!”
Over the last few months, she’s become adept at knowing just from Verin’s expression how much more she can push before Verin loses her temper, and she judges there’s still a little time yet.
“You’re learning to read because it’s required to become an Aes Sedai, and that-” Verin holds up her hand for silence when Liandrin opens her mouth to argue “-is absolutely fine. You’re fighting through much more than most girls will ever have to. But you’re treating it as a means to an end. I want you to see that there’s a joy in being able to read and write - you can create with just a pen and your mind, you can escape just by reading the words of a book…”
Liandrin has to admit that the idea does sound nice. Too nice, almost. “A Brown sister would say that,” she answers, because she cannot admit to Verin that she doesn’t think she’ll ever be good enough to do something like that.
The knowing look she receives in response tells her that Verin understood what she meant without her even needing to put it into words. And somehow, because it’s Verin, the idea isn’t as uncomfortable as it could be.
“Naturally,” Verin says mildly, as though the slight insult in Liandrin’s words doesn’t bother her at all, “and I’d not be a very good Brown sister if I didn’t try to help you understand why I feel that way.” She gives Liandrin an encouraging smile. “Now, tell me what you’d like to read a story about.”
This, at least, Liandrin can answer easily, and Verin knows it. It’s been a frequent complaint over the past few weeks of reading practice. “A girl. No, a woman,” Liandrin says firmly. “There’s too many men in the books we’ve read. The women just sit around weeping and waiting to be rescued.”
Verin nods and smiles, and it makes a sudden warmth bloom in Liandrin’s chest. “I’ve often thought the same,” Verin says, seeming genuinely pleased that they agree. “So tell me about her.”
It ought to bother her that Verin just assumes she can, but to her surprise, Liandrin finds that she likes the surety. It feels like Verin believes in her, like she sees some potential in her that Liandrin doesn’t.
And she wants to live up to that. Desperately. So she pauses and lines the words up in her head first. “She’s brave,” she says slowly and carefully, “and she doesn’t need rescuing, especially not by a man.” But once she’s begun, the words keep coming with surprising ease. “Oh! She rescues other people!” she adds delightedly. “And she’s beautiful!”
Verin looks equally delighted. And, Liandrin thinks, perhaps a little proud. “How so?” she asks, with another encouraging smile. She reaches out as if to squeeze Liandrin’s hand but stops at the last minute.
Liandrin finds herself wishing that Verin had carried on and held her hand. Wanting to be touched by anyone is still an unfamiliar feeling, and she tries not to think too much about what it means that she wants Verin to.
And there’s still the small matter of answering Verin’s question. She rushes on. “Beautiful like-” she begins, and hastily cuts herself off, barely snatching back the traitorous words before they escape. She may be unable to prevent her feelings for Moiraine but she can certainly try to avoid shaming herself by admitting to them. “-like you,” she finishes softly, and heat floods her face. She’s thought it for a long time but she’d had no intention of ever actually telling Verin.
Verin looks almost as flustered as she feels. “Ah, I- well, I’m sure you could pick someone better than me to base her on, but thank you,” she stammers, reaching up to adjust her hair, a nervous habit Liandrin has never seen before.
Her own embarrassment is almost worth it to see Verin so close to being speechless.
After a minute, Verin clears her throat and continues, “remember that this is your story; it can include anything you want.” She pauses and looks at Liandrin as though assessing whether or not to share a secret. “I find it helps to think of things I like, then try to weave them into the story.”
Night, Liandrin thinks, closing her eyes without meaning to. When it’s dark and quiet and still, and she can be alone without anyone expecting anything of her. Sometimes she wishes she could bottle that feeling.
If she didn’t know better, she’d say Verin was using a weave on her, for the thoughts and words keep coming more easily than she could have expected. “She has a cloak made of the night, of stars,” she murmurs, because the image in her mind is as clear as a painting although she can’t understand how. “It’s black and blue and purple and covered in tiny sparks of light, and it ripples in the breeze even when there isn’t one.”
When Liandrin opens her eyes again, Verin is looking at her with an expression she can’t quite work out. “How did I do?” she asks sheepishly. She doesn’t want to care about Verin’s opinion, but she does, more than she cares about anyone else’s.
“I wasn’t testing you, I just wanted to show you what you can do,” Verin says gently, and this time when she reaches out and hesitates, Liandrin turns her hand over, palm up, in invitation. Verin gives her a soft smile and squeezes her hand. “Did you enjoy it?” she asks.
The answer rises to Liandrin’s lips before she can even think about it. “Yes, I did,” she says honestly, and the warmth in Verin’s smile makes her feel weak.
“Good girl,” Verin praises gently. Her hand is still in Liandrin’s, and Liandrin cannot believe how comfortable it feels. “I think that’s enough for tonight. But why don’t you take the pen and paper with you, just in case you’re feeling inspired?”
For the first time, Liandrin actually wants to. It’s as if everything Verin thinks she’s capable of, which before felt completely out of reach, now feels possible. No one has ever believed in her the way Verin does.
“Thank you, Verin,” she murmurs, but all of a sudden, it doesn’t feel like enough. Before she can think better of it, she hugs Verin fiercely, sighing softly when Verin’s arms come around her too.
Liandrin can’t remember the last time she willingly hugged someone. Verin is warm and soft, and smells of ink and the dust of old books, and something else too, something floral. It’s comforting to be so close to her.
“If I’d known it would have this effect, I’d have tried encouraging you to come up with stories weeks ago,” Verin laughs, but she sounds pleased and affectionate. “Now run along dear, but keep your imagination open.”