“You know what this means, Little White.”  Whitehair was what the tribe was called in the vulgar tongue. As for Oren, the Gibbor had called him Little White since a boy. It was a joke now, for Oren stood well over six feet tall.  “You also know the cost to my spirit as I battled to retrieve Rand from the void.”

            Oren grimaced. He well remembered the three days that the Seer had labored, his spirit stretched to the breaking point as he battled forces that were pushing the King closer and closer to that cloying mass of dark that sought to pull all to its core. It wasn’t enough to capture the King, the Dark had wanted the Gibbor as well, but the Gibbor had fought. Sometimes he’d commanded, sometimes he’d wept. Once, he banged his head against the cave walls. 

            Oren had stood guard at the cave entrance lest an invader or an animal try to enter. Any intruder would have died on the spot, but the killing would have broken the Gibbor’s link to the visible world, losing him as well.

            Oren hadn’t turned once. Not even when the groans of deepest pain had caused his heart to ache. Not even when the Gibbor had commanded, then whispered in a hieratic language that caused Oren to tremble with memories long suppressed.  

All for a wastrel King. 

            The Gibbor had emerged victorious, but the cost had been dear. He’d staggered out to collapse in Oren’s arms. Both had wept.