Wordlessly, he held out his left arm. It throbbed with agony. Strangely, he could still feel his hand. It seemed he should be able to make a fist with the fingers that were no longer there. His goose bumps intensified as she drew more deeply on saidar, the tendrils of smoke vanished from his cuff, and she gripped his arm above the waist. His entire arm began tingling, and the pain drained away. Slowly, blackened skin was replaced by smooth skin that seemed to ooze down until it covered the small lump that had been the base of his hand. It was a miraculous thing to see. The scarlet-and-gold dragon grew back, too, as much as it could, ending in a bit of the golden mane. He could still feel the whole hand.
“I’m so sorry,” Nynaeve said again. “let me delve you for any other injuries.” She asked, but did not wait, of course. She reached up to cup his head between her hands, and a chill ran through him. “There’s something wrong with your eyes,” she said with a frown. “I’m afraid to try fixing that without studying on it. The smallest mistake could blind you. How well can you see? How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two. I can see fine,” he lied. The black flecks were gone, but everything still seemed seen through water, and he wanted to squint against a sun that appeared to flare ten times brighter than it had. The old wounds in his side were knotted with pain.
Bashere climbed down from his compact bay in front of him and frowned at the stump of his left arm. Unbuckling his helmet, he took it off and held it under his arm. “At least you’re alive,” he said gruffly. “I’ve seen men hurt worse.”
“Me, too” Rand said. “I’ll have to learn the sword all over again, though.” bashere nodded. Most forms required two hands. Rand bent to pick up the crown of Illiam, but Min released his arm and hurriedly handed the crown to him. He settled it on his head. “I’ll have to work out new ways to do everything.”
“You must be in shock,” Nynaeve said slowly. “You’ve just suffered a grievous injury, Rand. Maybe you’d better lie down. Lord Davram, have one of your men bring a saddle to put his feet up.”
“He’s not in shock,” Min said sadly. The bond was full of sadness. She had taken hold of his arm as if to hold him up again. “He’s lost a hand, but there’s nothing to do about it, so he’s left it behind already.”
“Wool-headed fool,” Nynaeve muttered. Her hand, still smeared with Sandomere’s blood, drifted towards the thick braid hanging over her shoulder, but she yanked it back down. “You’ve been hurt badly. It’s alright to grieve. It’s alright to feel stunned. It’s normal!”
“I don’t have time,” he told her. Min’s sadness threatened to overflow the bond. Light, he was alright! Why did she feel so sad?
Robert Jordan, Knife of Dreams, Chapter twenty seven, page six hundred and ten