A/N: Ack! The fluff! –dies-

Still don't own it.

If you have to ask, you shouldn't be reading this.

Lan and Nynaeve were arguing again.

She hated it when they argued, no matter how sweet the making up might be afterwards. But sometimes he was just so stubborn, as only a man could be. Then, of course, it was her job to talk sense into him. She was his wife, after all. But then he would bring up that cursed business about the Sea Folk marriage customs about obedience in private, and it just deteriorated from there.

It was always about the same thing, and today her patience was stretched to its very limits. If she had not suspected it would have been hypocritical, she would have been screaming profanity at her husband long since. As it was, it was all she could do to keep from slapping him, her hands clenching on her skirts so hard that her knuckles were white. Only because he was her husband, no matter how irritating he might be. That, and the fact that the last time she had hit him, it had hurt her more than he.

"Listen to reason, Nynaeve," Lan was saying patiently. "I need to go warn the Borderlanders. Trollocs could be flooding out of the Blight any day now, and they can't be fighting each other if they're going to stand against them."

"I don't blo – I don't care about the Borderlanders! Besides, this isn't really about them, anyway. Don't think I don't know what you're planning. You've got that fool notion back into your head about riding north and getting yourself killed somewhere in that wasteland. I will not let you kill yourself, al'Lan Mandragoran, for some woolheaded notion of revenging Moiraine."

Lan waited until she ran out of breath, and then continued on as if she had said nothing. "They will need my help, there," he said. "I know that you need me, too, but at least let me warn them."

"Need you?" Nynaeve said. Shrieked would be more accurate, really. "Me, need you? You need me! If it weren't for me, you'd still be muttering about widow's weeds and trying to die somewhere in the Blight."


"Why can't you make some bloody sense for once!" Nynaeve continued, trampling over him. "Why can't you see what's right in front of your nose! I won't let you go, not when I know you're planning to fall on that bloody sword of yours as soon as I turn around. I refuse to let my husband do such a…a...useless act! It would be waste, Master Mandragoran, sheer waste. Why can't you just be like normal men and have some sense of self preservation? I worry about you all the time, and I shouldn't have to! I should be enjoying getting married! I wish that you would give me flowers, just once, like Valan Luca –" Abruptly she stopped, noticing the suddenly dangerous expression on Lan's face. She flinched. Or almost did. Then forced herself to stand her ground. "What is the matter? You look as if you have swallowed an unripe berry."

"Who is Valan Luca?" He said in a voice that was deceptively soft. Soft in the same way that a pard's fur was soft.

Nynaeve forced herself to keep her voice calm. He really was very tall, and he had a nasty way of looming when he was unhappy with her. Like now. "Just a man…a man I met once. A fool."

Lan did not look convinced. He turned away very abruptly and stalked to the door. At the doorframe he turned and glanced at her with those cold, cold eyes. She nearly shivered. "We will speak again, Nynaeve Sedai." Then he was gone, just like that.

He knees gave way, and she sat down on the bed promptly. She suddenly felt very scared. Was he angry with her? Should she apologize? But that was the problem with men – back down an inch, and they took a mile. But… "Light, Nynaeve Sedai?" she muttered. Sighing, Nynaeve undid her mussed braid and began brushing it, counting one hundred strokes.

The next day, Nynaeve did not see Lan for a long while. When she was sitting in her room, staring at the ring he had given her so long ago, she heard a slight brush of cloak on wood behind her. She wheeled around and saw Lan. She exhaled a sigh of relief. "You…you startled me," she said, hoping her voice was not trembling. Light, who had she been expecting. Then she noticed what he held, awkwardly, at his side. His face looked as awkward as she had ever seen it.

"Lan, what is that?"

He glanced down at the little bundle, a touch sheepishly. "Nothing. Well, they are flowers. For you." He held them out, looking a little embarrassed.

"Roses, Lan? Wherever did you find them?" Nynaeve took the little bundle of small, almost wilted roses, and pressed them to her face, breathing in the sweet scent.

Lan looked down. "It is my duty to provide what my wife asks," he said stiffly. "You said you wanted flowers, so I found you flowers. Do they please you?"

Nynaeve couldn't help laughing. She set the roses down carefully, weaving a Keeping over them as she did so. She would keep them forever. Valan Luca's colorful, fully grown flowers were nothing to these pitiful roses. Nothing! "Oh, Lan," she said. "Thank you. Thank you so much. You are a dear, whatever I say when I am angry."

She had only turned away for a moment, blinked, but suddenly she found herself pressed against Lan's chest, feet dangling a foot from the floor. "'You have made a place in my heart where I thought there was no room for anything else. You have made flowers grow where I cultivated dust and stones.' Do you remember when I said that to you? It is true, Nynaeve. Those flowers are what you have grown in my heart, mashiara.

"No, not your lost love," Nynaeve said, the words muffled against his chest. "Never lost."

"I love you, Nynaeve al'Meara," he said gently, setting her down on the bed. As he released her and began to straighten, she pulled his head back down, kissing him firmly. Then she turned her head to whisper in his ear.

"And I love you, al'Lan Mandragoran. I love you, Lan."