Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey!” A voice calls, echoing down the corridor behind him. Kaladin turns to see Adolin jogging toward him, belt clanking with the intricate sword at his side. Kaladin’s sword. 

He looks dazzling in his wedding attire, Kholin blue bringing out the stunning cobalt of his eyes, blonde and black hair perfectly imperfect, smile as bright as the sun. Kaladin can’t help the grin that spreads across his own face at the sight of his friend’s obvious happiness.

“Married is a good look on you,” he comments as Adolin catches up to him. Adolin laughs, joyspren swirling around him, some even daring to weave enthusiastically around Kaladin’s legs before dissipating. 

“You mean I look even more dashing than usual?” Adolin asks, pleased, still grinning. Kaladin snorts, rolling his eyes.

“Wow, handsome and humble,” Kaladin says sarcastically.

Adolin punches him on the shoulder playfully and Kaladin shoves him back in retaliation.

Adolin’s smile mellows, shifting into something softer. 

“Kaladin, I wanted to thank you,” he says, suddenly almost achingly sincere. 

“For what?” Kaladin asks, surprised, brows furrowing.

“For everything,” Adolin responds, eyes wide and earnest. “For the sword. For being here today. For putting up with me. For the honor of your friendship. You know, everything,” he says emphatically, waving an enthusiastic hand around them in a vaguely inclusive gesture.

Kaladin feels an unexpected lump rise in his throat. Storms. How can he just say things like that? His eyes flick down, staring at the sword – his sword – tied to Adolin’s belt. Out of the dozens of swords he’d been gifted today, Adolin had chosen to wear Kaladin’s. 

He blinks rapidly, swallowing in an effort to relieve the sudden tightness, before he’s able to reign in the unexpected emotion and meet the prince’s gaze once again. Adolin is watching him, smile gone soft with understanding.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Kaladin says to him, voice rougher than usual. He clears his throat. He wants to say something else, like, I should be thanking you, or, Why did you choose my sword? or, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. But he suddenly feels too raw, too vulnerable, and the words won’t come.

Instead, he says, “Congratulations, Adolin. You deserve this happiness. Both of you.” 

Adolin reaches for him and Kaladin doesn’t resist, letting the princeling pull him into an abrupt hug. It’s not one of those casual, perfunctory hugs; there are strong arms wrapped tightly around him, a large, heavy hand holding the back of his neck, a messy blonde head tucked into his shoulder. It’s affection and gratitude and warmth. Kaladin squeezes back, holding the other man close.

“You deserve happiness, too, Kal. Don’t forget that,” Adolin whispers, breath warm on Kaladin’s skin. Kaladin’s eyes slip closed and he breathes in the scent of Adolin’s shampoo; clean and woodsy and slightly floral. He presses a smile into Adolin’s hair. 

They stay there for another minute before separating, both scrubbing their faces surreptitiously as they pull away.

Adolin clears his throat. 

“Well, I just wanted to catch you before you disappeared. I’ll let you go now,” he says. He slowly starts to back away, as if pulled back toward the festivities and his family and his new wife.

Kaladin really is happy for them. They deserve this. They’re both so good for each other.

He smiles at Adolin, shooing him away playfully.

“Go, go. Don’t stay up too late,” Kaladin warns in a mock-stern voice that absolutely nobody is buying.

Adolin grins, winks at him. “Who says I’m going to sleep at all?”

Kaladin groans dramatically and Adolin’s boisterous laugh echoes off the stones as he turns and makes his way back down the hall. Kaladin watches him go, melancholy slowly overtaking his good humor as Adolin gets further and further away, filling him like inevitable floodwaters, a trickle into a stream into a deluge, until Adolin is finally out of his sight and Kaladin knows he may get sucked under if he doesn’t find a way to pull himself out.

He turns and begins walking away from the party, steps slow and heavy. 

His rooms? No, too empty. Too much time to think. 

His family’s apartment? He loves them, but their concern for him feels overwhelming at the best of times and would certainly be too much for him now. 

The training grounds? His favorite sparring partner just walked away from him, off to enjoy what will most likely be one of the best days of his life. As he absolutely should. Kaladin doesn’t begrudge him that one bit.

He’s just starting to feel genuinely miserable when he hears several sets of heavy footfalls behind him, and suddenly Bridge Four is there, surrounding him. Rock throws a heavy arm over his shoulders, making Kaladin stumble before regaining his balance. 

“Kaladin! Join us to celebrate!” he booms jovially.

“Yeah, goncho, we’re goin’ drinking t’night, n’ YOU are coming with us,” Lopen slurs, walking backwards in front of them and pointing crookedly at Kaladin. 

Kaladin thinks they may have had enough drinks already, but he doesn’t argue; they should be allowed to indulge now and then, especially for an event as significant as a friend’s wedding. 

Lopen trips over his own feet and almost faceplants into the stone floor but Drehy catches him by the arm, laughing, and hauls him upright again.

“You’re an idiot,” Drehy says fondly, clapping Lopen on the back with far too much force, almost causing the man to lose his balance again. Thankfully, Lopen recovers with only minimal stumbling.

“Hey, no need t’ be jealous of The Lop’n, ‘m willing t’ share my wisdom ‘f you just ask,” Lopen says magnanimously, nearly unintelligible.

“We’re going to Jez’s Duty,” Sigzil informs Kaladin from his other side. He’s much more composed than the rest of the windrunners, though his eyes are slightly glassy and there are spots of color high on his cheeks, giving him away. 

“Will you come?” he asks Kaladin imploringly.

Kaladin considers turning them down, but only for a minute. He doesn’t really want to be alone right now, and it’s been a while since he really relaxed with his men. It will be nice to just be, for a while, even if he doesn’t indulge himself quite as much as he guesses they will.

He smiles at Sigzil. 

“Yes, I’ll come,” he says simply.

Bridge Four erupts in cheers around him and he can’t keep his lips from turning up at the sides at their enthusiasm.

He forgets, sometimes, when he’s lost in his own head, smothered by his own traitorous emotions, how many people he has around him. He forgets, sometimes, that if he needed them, if he came calling, if he asked for their help, they wouldn’t hesitate to be there for him, any time of the day or night, for anything at all. 

He forgets how many people he is lucky to call friend, who call him friend in return. He forgets how many people he loves who love him back just as fiercely.

He forgets, but they always make sure to remind him of it when he does.

Chapter Text

A voice said, Look me in the stars

And tell me truly, men of earth,

If all the soul-and-body scars

Were not too much to pay for birth.

"A Question" by Robert Frost

***

“You should bring Lyn tomorrow. It’ll be fun. A double date!” 

Adolin grins at Kaladin and takes another swig of blue. It’s nice to finally be able to step away from duty and do something just for the fun of it. He feels like it’s been ages since he and Kaladin have had a conversation that wasn’t just about guard rotations or training schedules — at the very least since they got back from Shadesmar. 

Adolin knows Kaladin is doing better now, but knowing doesn’t stop him from worrying; seeing him has eased it some, but still it lingers.

He notices the change in Kaladin’s demeanor as soon as he lowers his glass. Just a moment ago he’d been calm, possibly even content, enjoying their usual back-and-forth, lips tilted up at the corners, but now his shoulders are visibly tense, his hand clenching around his glass of orange. That ghost of a smile has disappeared completely and he glares down at the wooden tabletop.

“Aw, no,” Adolin groans, connecting the dots. He’s disappointed; Lyn is good for Kaladin. He’d really been hoping the two of them would work out. She makes him laugh, and he seems to have less bad days when she’s around. 

Also, Adolin just hates the idea of Kaladin being alone, like, ever. Overprotective, maybe, but he blames it on the fact that he can’t shake the image of Kaladin, wide-eyed and trembling, crying as Adolin bled out on the dark ground in front of him.

“Storms,” Adolin sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He shakes his head. “What happened?”

There’s a pause, and then, in a tone that very clearly indicates he wants to drop the subject, Kaladin says, “It just didn’t work out.” 

“Kal,” Adolin says, exasperated. Obviously it didn’t work out, they wouldn’t be having this conversation if it had.

“Adolin,” Kaladin mimics. It’s a terrible impression of him; Adolin’s voice is definitely not that whiny. Adolin just sniffs and raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting. 

Kaladin rolls his eyes, caving before Adolin’s persuasive prowess like Adolin knew he would. 

“It’s not a big deal. The nightmares were a lot for her to deal with. And we just… wanted different things. It was mutual,” he tacks on defensively, glaring, like maybe Adolin was going to accuse Kaladin of sabotaging his own relationship. 

That stings a little; Adolin’s never been one to assign blame. He has a long history of failed dalliances himself, and he’d be a hypocrite if he suddenly started criticizing the way other people handle their own affairs. But he can tell how affected Kaladin is, even though he’s pretending otherwise, so he lets it slide for now.

Adolin knows how much Kaladin liked Lyn. He told Adolin, one night in this very booth after a few too many drinks and before Kaladin used stormlight to clear it all out of him system, how much he enjoyed her company, that she was fun and that she made him feel less alone, less like the walking legend he’s become and more like a real person.

It does bother him some that she apparently couldn’t ‘deal with’ Kaladin’s nightmares. He knows how unnerving, intense, scary, even heartbreaking they can be to witness; Kaladin’s fallen asleep on his couch more than once, and Adolin’s experienced it firsthand. But to name it as a reason not to be with him…  Adolin would never. That’s just more of a reason he would stay , if it were him. 

But not everyone feels that way, apparently, and Adolin’s not going to judge, so Adolin grudgingly – heroically – doesn’t comment on that, and focuses on the second part instead.

“What kind of things did she want?” Adolin asks, curious. What more could someone want when they were already the sole object of Kaladin Stormblessed’s attention?

Kaladin looks away from Adolin again, gazing past their booth and out over the rest of the bar. His long hair is pulled back into a tie but several strands have fallen loose, and he absently brushes them back behind his ear. He doesn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular, just letting his dark eyes roam as he decides whether or not to give in to Adolin’s curiosity. Adolin waits him out and is eventually rewarded for his patience.

“She wants– wanted– someone more normal ,” Kaladin says quietly, still avoiding eye contact. “Someone who can show her… affection, and… things.”

Adolin’s eyebrows shoot up. Not exactly what he was expecting. Also, less than clear. He’s going to need Kaladin to elaborate.

“Affection, and… things?” he repeats. 

Kaladin finally looks up from where he’d been tracing the wood grain of the table and glares at him.

“You know what I mean.”

"Actually, no, I really don’t,” Adolin shoots back, because he could make assumptions but that’s not something that ever really works out for him. He decides to be blunt; directness usually works best with Kaladin, especially when he’s uncomfortable. 

“Do you mean sex?”

Kaladin’s face flushes and his jaw clenches. 

“Yes,” he grits out. He looks either constipated or embarrassed. Adolin thinks it’s a safe bet to assume it’s the second. 

Kaladin is a notorious prude. Adolin, on the other hand, doesn’t think sex is anything to be embarrassed about, and talks about it freely and often. Along with feelings, and thoughts, and desires. Of course, it’s quite possible he’s in the minority on this; his father always told him he wears his heart on his sleeve.

“But… why?” Adolin asks, still trying to make sense of it. Unless… “Are you saying you two never…” he trails off, eyes widening as Kaladin flushes even darker, confirming his suspicion. 

“Really?” he asks, flabbergasted. “ Never? ”

“Can we just drop it?” Kaladin snaps, and Adolin rears back a little at the sharp tone.

He’s honestly shocked. He knows sex is not something Kaladin has ever enjoyed discussing, but he just thought it was the other man’s prudishness and strict code of honor that held him back from even alluding to his experiences with Lyn. He’s always been okay discussing relationships in general, at least with Adolin; they’ve talked about both the concept of romantic relationships and about Lyn specifically. And when sex has come up on occasion in the past, he’s never reacted this violently; it’s always just been a stern I’m not talking about this with you , and then Adolin whines a bit and Kaladin stands his ground and then they move on, changing the subject to something less ‘private’.

What makes this time different? Is it because he’s feeling guilty that maybe he isn’t attracted to Lyn the way she wants him to be? But that doesn’t quite make sense either; they seemed pretty cozy the last time Adolin saw them together on the Windrunner training grounds, standing close with their heads bent together, whispering, sharing gentle touches and soft smiles.

Adolin has somehow struck a nerve and he doesn’t understand how or even which one.

He can sense that Kaladin has reached his limit of prying questions for now though, so he lets it drop. He raises his hands in front of himself and holds his palms out placatingly. 

“Sure, no problem. Consider it dropped,” he says.

Neither of them speak for several long moments, conversation derailed from its earlier lighthearted ease. The silence at their table is thick and uncomfortable, made even more so by the racket of the bar around them, the cheerful sounds of glasses clinking and boisterous laughter while they sit there, not talking. 

Adolin shakes off the awkwardness and rallies; he’s here to have a good time with his best friend, and if that means avoiding conversations about sex, or exes, or whatever, that’s fine, he can do that. 

Gossiping about his family is usually a safe bet with Kaladin, who listens to his whining and only judges him a little bit and usually chips in here and there with sarcastic comments that let Adolin know he’s enjoying the conversation, and last night Shallan regaled him with a juicy tale of Jasnah doing Jasnah things, which he thinks Kaladin will enjoy. They’ve never really gotten along. He launches into the story with gusto.

“Did Shallan tell you what Jasnah—” 

He doesn’t even make it through the first sentence before Kaladin abruptly pushes himself out of the booth and stands. His eyes are pinched at the corners, expression closed off, and he digs a couple of spheres out of his pocket and tosses them on the table. 

“I’m going to head back,” he mutters, not looking at Adolin.

“What? Kaladin, wait–” Adolin says, feeling blindsided. He dropped it, he agreed not to talk about it anymore, whatever it is. Why, then, is Kaladin leaving? 

He starts to stand as well, but Kaladin has already turned his back and started walking toward the exit. 

“Kaladin, come on, don’t go,” Adolin tries, beseeching, but Kaladin doesn’t even acknowledge him. He just slips smoothly away through the oblivious bar patrons and thirty seconds later he’s gone, door swinging shut behind him. 

***

Adolin Kholin may not be as clever as Jasnah or Renarin, but he’s not an idiot either. Even if he doesn’t understand the why part, he knows he upset Kaladin somehow. 

He debates going to Shallan about it, thinking that maybe it’s less about the questions he asked and more about the fact that it’s him asking them and that the Windrunner might open up to someone else, but then he dismisses the thought; if Kaladin doesn’t want to talk with Adolin of all people about relationship issues, he very much doubts he’ll be comfortable discussing it with anyone else, let alone another woman, let alone Shallan , someone he’d once harbored romantic feelings for.

In any case, he’s the one that somehow broke this, so he’s the one that needs to fix it. Mind made up, he finishes his wine in one too-large gulp that ends in a small coughing fit. Once he recovers, eyes watering, he leaves both the glass and a generous tip on the table. He smiles and waves goodbye to various friends and acquaintances as he leaves the crowded tavern.

Kaladin’s rooms are several floors up, but he prefers to stay in his family’s apartment more often than not, sleeping in little Oroden’s room on a bed much too small for his ridiculously large frame. There’s a chance he’s gone there now, but Adolin doubts it. Kaladin hates feeling like he’s a burden to anyone, least of all his family, so his standard practice when he’s upset is to find some place to be alone and brood. 

Kaladin’s apartment it is. 

He raps hard on the door with his knuckles when he arrives, but Kaladin doesn’t answer. Well, if he thinks Adolin’s just going to take that for the dismissal it very obviously is, he’s clearly forgetting how persistent Adolin can be. 

“Kaladinnn,” he says in a sing-song voice.  

“Bridgeboy, answer your door! Kaladinnn!”

He continues knocking for several minutes, keeping up the obnoxious shouting, even mixing in Brightlord Windrunner and Highmarshal Stormface a few times, until Kaladin finally relents, opening the door with a dark scowl. 

“What,” Kaladin says, voice flat.

Adolin grins and places his hand flat on the door, pushing it all the way open and breezing inside past the other man. Kaladin curses under his breath, something about storming lighteyes , but doesn’t physically throw him out, so Adolin takes it as a win. 

The apartment isn’t a huge space, compared to Adolin and Shallan’s rooms, but there’s no hiding the fact that Kaladin has done absolutely nothing to make it even remotely welcoming. Adolin always manages to forget how empty and lonely it feels. There’s minimal furniture; a single short couch off to one side with a low table in front, a large wooden armoire on the wall across from the door, and Kaladin’s unmade bed pushed off into the furthest corner of the room with a small bedside table next to it. There’s a door in the far wall that Adolin knows leads to the bathroom. There are no decorations on the walls, and very few personal touches in the entire space. The only things indicating an actual person lives here are the stack of papers on the low table and several small rocks sitting on the nightstand by the bed. 

Kaladin told him once that his younger brother loved unusual rocks and would give them to him to make him smile. Kaladin also told him once what it did to him when his brother died.

Adolin is jolted from his sudden melancholy at the sound of Kaladin snapping the door shut and turns around, watching the other man stalk over to the couch, still scowling. He sits, and Adolin feels a surge of fondness; despite the glare, Kaladin has left just enough room on the loveseat for another person to sit. Considerate even when cranky.

“I always forget how depressing it is in here. You should really let me lighten it up a bit,” Adolin says, voice chipper, turning in a slow circle in the middle of the room. Kaladin ignores him, picking up the sheaf of papers from the table and flipping through them. 

“We could put paintings on the wall, there and there, maybe a rug or two,” Adolin says, eyes squinted as he visualizes possible improvements. “Oh, a tapestry! There are plenty of tapestries laying around the tower just gathering dust. I’m sure we could find one to your liking, you know, heavy on the doom and gloom.”

Kaladin stays silent, scrutinizing the papers. Adolin can make out some geographical maps, several lists. Probably important. Seems like everything Kaladin is involved in is important. Whatever, if Kaladin was able to join him for drinks, surely it can keep until tomorrow.

When Kaladin still fails to respond to his very insightful comments on interior decorating Adolin heaves a sigh.

“Ho, bridgeboy!” he snaps, voice is loud in the quiet room.

Kaladin smacks the papers down onto his lap, irritated.

“What, Adolin?”

Adolin puts on his most charming smile.

“Hello there.” He gives a jaunty little wave. “Nice of you to acknowledge me.”

Kaladin glowers darkly. “What do you want, Adolin?”

“Can’t I stop by to say hi to a friend?” Adolin asks innocently. He knows he’s needling but Kaladin just makes it so easy sometimes.

“No,” Kaladin grunts. “You just saw me ten minutes ago, why would you need to say hi?” 

Adolin saunters the few steps to the couch and plops down onto the vacant seat, throwing his head back on the cushion and sighing dramatically. 

“Because you practically ran out of Jez’s Duty ten minutes ago and holed yourself up in here to brood,” Adolin says as if it’s obvious, rolling his head to the side to shoot an accusatory look at Kaladin.

Now Kaladin’s the one rolling his eyes. “I didn’t run out of Jez’s Duty. And I’m not holing up in here. These are my rooms.”

“That you never stay in.”

“That’s not true,” Kaladin argues.

“Fine, that you rarely stay in, and only ever when you’re upset,” Adolin counters, and Kaladin’s jaw ticks. He looks down, shuffling the papers in his lap.

“I’m not upset,” he says. Adolin snorts.

“Sure, and I’m the newest windrunner squire,” Adolin says. A sliver of bitterness accidentally slips into the words, and Adolin winces internally. Apparently that one still stings. He’ll have to avoid that particular joke for the foreseeable future.

Kaladin regards him shrewdly, eyes squinted, but Adolin keeps a straight face and the other man lets it slide without comment, looking away.

Seeing the moment Kaladin finally lets his guard down is always compelling to Adolin. There’s something special about someone who has been through what Kaladin has deciding that Adolin Kholin is, in fact, worth their trust. Physically, it’s only small changes, but Adolin knows them intimately, actively looks for them; the miniscule amount that Kaladin’s shoulders drop, as if in sharing with Adolin he’s lessening a burden; the crease between his brows lessening just that little bit, smoothing out his skin and making him look younger, more vulnerable; the corners of his mouth rising from their downward pull, settling into a more neutral position instead.

“I’m fine,” Kaladin says finally, defensive tone melting away to be replaced by something closer to exhaustion. He slumps and runs a hand through his dark hair, displacing the tie and causing several strands to fall into his face. He blows out a puff of air, and when that fails to remedy the problem reaches up to tuck the offending piece behind his ear. Adolin notes it’s being particularly stubborn this evening. Adolin picks up the fallen tie from the couch cushion and hands it back to Kaladin, who pockets it with a nod of thanks. 

“Really, Adolin, I’m fine. It’s just a sore subject,” he says. He leans forward to place his documents back on the low table, then relaxes back into the couch, turning his head toward Adolin, their arms brushing lightly.

“Why, though?” Adolin asks. He’s being serious now; the time for teasing is over. 

“Why is it a sore subject? We talk about our relationships all the time–” Kaladin raises an eyebrow and Adolin amends, “–okay fine, maybe not all the time, but it’s not like it’s unusual or forbidden or off limits for us. Why is it a sore subject this time?”

Kaladin is quiet, brows drawn together, eyes jumping between Adolin’s own, and Adolin can tell he’s not refusing to answer but is instead thinking of how he wants to answer, so he stays quiet. 

“Do you really want to know?” Kaladin asks finally. Adolin sits up straighter and looks at him, feeling a tingle of unease. What could be so bad that Kaladin would hesitate like this, after everything he’s already shared with Adolin over the years?

“Yeah, Kal, of course I do,” he says earnestly, despite the disquiet he feels.

Kaladin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, steadying himself. Then he leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees and drops his head into his hands. He tangles his fingers in his long, dark waves and starts talking to the floor.

“Lyn has been saying for a while now that something was missing between us. At first I didn’t know what she was getting at, so she started dropping hints. I figured it out pretty quickly after that, she wasn’t very subtle… but I played stupid. Then she made a pass at me and I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“We got into a fight, and I told her I couldn’t– couldn’t do that.” Adolin notices the stumble but doesn’t call him on it. Kaladin opening up about his past the way he is right now is a rare thing indeed, and Adolin won’t risk interrupting. 

There’s a slight pause, just the sound of their breathing, before Kaladin continues.

“I told her it wasn’t her, that I just didn’t want that at all, but I don't think she believed me. She told me she couldn’t be with me anymore. That she wanted to be able to do normal couple things and sex was a part of that. And I get that. She’s not wrong. She’s allowed to want that in a relationship. But it’s just not something that I can give her. 

“And so then she said maybe we’d be better off as just friends. I agreed.” Kaladin shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant, but Adolin knows him too well; he sees right through the facade to the hurt he’s trying to hide.

“I’m sorry,” Adolin says, laying a comforting hand on Kaladin’s shoulder.

“It is what it is. I know I’m not normal about it,” Kaladin says self-deprecatingly.  

“Hey, come on,” Adolin chides softly. He hates when Kaladin talks like this. Kaladin’s the best person Adolin knows; it blows his mind that he thinks so poorly of himself.

Adolin’s hand slips off Kaladin’s shoulder as the other man pushes himself upright.

“It’s true though, Adolin. I’m not normal. I don’t think I ever will be. I can’t–” he cuts off, growling in frustration. 

He glowers at the far wall for a moment, then takes a few deep breaths, eyes closed, before he opens them again, determined. 

“You know I was a slave,” Kaladin says, looking right at Adolin. There’s a strange calmness to him now, like he knows there’s a highstorm coming and the only way out is through. Adolin’s anxiety grows. He can’t imagine anything good coming from a story that begins with Kaladin’s time as a slave.

“Yes, I do,” Adolin says carefully, heart pounding.

“Your family had slaves, didn’t they?” Kaladin asks him, voice still disconcertingly neutral. Adolin can’t sense judgement in the question, though he knows Kaladin has strong feelings on the subject. It’s unsettling.

Adolin nods reluctantly. It’s true, even it’s not something he likes to admit or even think about.

“And all the other lighteyed families?” Kaladin asks. Adolin thinks of Jakamav and Toral. May. Danlan. All the people he cavorted around with on the Shattered Plains, before the world was turned on its head.

He nods again. Every single one of their families owned slaves, just like his did. He likes to think his family treated their slaves better than the others did theirs, but he can’t deny that owning a person – whether they be human or parshman or whatever else – is abuse in itself. The idea alone now makes his skin crawl.

“What did you do when they did something wrong?” Kaladin asks him, voice softer now, almost coaxing, trying to guide Adolin into understanding what he’s heading toward. Still no judgement, still watching Adolin closely. 

Adolin pauses, not keen to admit the sins of his past out loud to someone who was so personally affected by those very sins, but he did ask for this. He asked for Kaladin’s honesty, and therefore needs to be able to give his in return. Don’t ask of your men what you wouldn’t do yourself. That’s at least one thing he can’t argue with his father about, and though Kaladin is no longer one of his men, the words still hold weight. 

He clears his throat. 

“Well. They’d be… chastised. Sometimes they wouldn’t be allowed to eat. If they did something egregious they would be whipped, or sold, but my family didn’t do that very often,” he says. Regret and disgust swirl sickeningly in his gut. 

Kaladin doesn’t get angry though. He just nods, like it’s not something he didn’t already know. Because it’s not. Adolin knows that he’d been the recipient of all those things during his time as a slave more than once. It makes Adolin physically sick when he thinks about it.

“And your family was probably one of the more lenient ones,” Kaladin says. He finally looks away, giving Adolin a break from that penetrating gaze, gathering his thoughts.

“What about the less lenient ones?” he asks then. He sounds less steady now. “What would they do, if they had a slave who resisted, who talked back?” 

Before Adolin can even attempt to answer the question, he continues, questions coming one after the other, almost pouring out of him. 

“What if the slave who broke the rules was young, and handsome,” – bitterness so thick Adolin can almost taste it, heavy and painful – “and refused to break, time and time and time again? What would they do then? What would they do to a slave like that?”

Understanding hits Adolin like a stormwall and he very nearly gets sick then and there, nausea overwhelming him in its wake. He’s heard stories, awful, horrific stories, of cruel owners, ones who did more than just hurl insults and whips, who enjoyed other, more repulsive ways of putting rebellious slaves ‘in their place’. 

He swallows back the bile as best he can; Kaladin is watching him, apparently waiting for an answer.

“They would– they would beat him.” He swallows again. “Starve him.” 

He knows that’s not it either though, knows that’s not what Kaladin is trying to tell him. There’s no doubt Kaladin was beaten as a slave, Adolin’s seen the scars himself, when they’ve sparred, tossing their shirts aside when they began to stick to their bodies with sweat. But it’s worse, so much worse. Adolin has never even considered– 

His voice is hoarse when he continues. “They’d mutilate him. They would ra–” 

His voice gives out then, unable to say the word, terrified of what it would mean for Kaladin if he does. It’s a silly feeling, because whatever happened to Kaladin when he was a slave happened a long time ago and nothing he says or does now can change that, but some part of Adolin feels like if he doesn’t ever know the full truth, if Kaladin never says it out loud, then it can’t be real.

Kaladin watches him struggle silently. Kaladin, who deserves more than Adolin’s cowardice, more than his guilt, and Adolin knows he needs to take accountability for his own complicitness in the dehumanization of living people, regardless of if he took part in the more appalling aspects of it or not. He knows his entire people need to take accountability, but that’s not something he can directly control. He can only control himself in this moment, and what choices he makes.

He takes a steadying breath and lets it out slowly. Tries again. 

“They– they would rape him.” His voice barely shakes this time; he’s not sure if he should feel proud or not. His emotions are all over the place. “To h-humiliate him, to put him in his place.”

He’s never felt such hatred as he does in the moment that immediately follows: Kaladin inclines his head, gestures in a way that encompasses his whole being, and says quietly, “Yeah, well… All of the above.”

Adolin’s eyes close, suddenly burning hot. His throat aches. He feels lightheaded, gut clenching. He wraps his arms low over his stomach, pressing in hard to try to ease the nausea. 

His mind has gone blank, refusing to process Kaladin’s words. He knew it was coming, knew it as soon as Kaladin started asking those pointed questions, but hearing it confirmed rocks him to his core. He can’t think straight. He can’t think at all, because when he does all he can see is Kaladin, slave brands fresh and angry on his forehead, bleeding and naked and struggling, as some sick, twisted Brightlord stands behind him–

“Adolin?” Kaladin says. He’s concerned. He’s concerned for Adolin. If Adolin could laugh at the irony, he would. “Are you alright?”

Adolin heaves in a breath, swallows back saliva, forces his eyes open. Finds Kaladin’s anxious face. Swallows again. He nods, his eyes locked on Kaladin’s, Yes, I’m alright , keeps nodding, and then suddenly he's trembling all over and shaking his head, unable to stop. No. No, no, no, no no no no, he’s not. He’s not alright, nothing is alright, nothing has ever been alright, how can Kaladin even stand to look at him, storms , how can he stand look at any of them ?

Adolin hears Kaladin say his name again, but he sounds far away, underwater. He’s suddenly freezing; he shivers violently. Black spots dance around the edges of his vision.

Adolin feels a blessedly warm hand grip his upper arm, which is still wrapped tightly around himself. Another hand presses gently between his shoulder blades until Adolin is bent over at the waist, head hanging down between his knees. Those hands feel like scorching brands through his clothes.

I’m in shock, he thinks with a sort of detached surprise. His whole body trembles uncontrollably and his muscles ache with it, tense. He feels like he wants to cry, needs to cry, but he can’t, he’s too horrified, he can only sit and shake with eyes burning and try not to throw up. He’s aware his breathing is too fast, so he tries to slow it down, cognizant enough to count – in-two-three, out-two-three, in-two-three, out-two-three – remembering how he used to help Renarin when they were younger, and how, once, he’d helped Kaladin through something similar. Kaladin hadn’t told him what had caused the episode at the time. Kaladin. Oh, Kaladin . 

Adolin’s eyes burn anew and a few tears escape, dripping down his face before falling to the stone floor between his feet. Kaladin’s hand is rubbing big, slow circles on his back, soothing him as he shakes apart.

It’s several minutes before he’s able to pull himself together. He gradually becomes aware that Kaladin is speaking to him, has probably been speaking to him the entire time, comforting little phrases meant to calm him. It’s okay, and It’s alright, I’m alright, and Breathe, Adolin, you’re okay, just breathe with me, and I’m okay, Adolin, everything’s okay now.

When the nausea has subsided enough that he doesn’t feel in imminent danger of vomiting, he scrubs the wetness off his face roughly with the cuff of his shirt and attempts to sit up.

“Slow,” Kaladin murmurs to him, the hand still on Adolin’s back guiding him gently into a sitting position. 

“Are you okay?” Kaladin asks him when he’s finally upright again. He’s so concerned; eyebrows knit together, lips downturned. Storms, this man. Storms . 

Adolin’s not okay. He feels awful. His head hurts and his eyes burn something awful, the nausea hasn’t fully abated, and every time Adolin’s brain pokes at what Kaladin has revealed he feels like he’s going to break down completely.

“I’m so sorry,” Adolin croaks out, lower lip trembling. His whole chest aches , a physical pain, like he’s in danger of flying apart. It feels like heartbreak; like grief. He supposes it is, in a way.

Kaladin just gives a little shrug, one hand still resting firmly on Adolin’s back, the other rubbing soothingly up and down Adolin’s arm. He shivers.

“It’s over now,” Kaladin says simply.

How can he be so– so–

Adolin shakes his head, overflowing with pain and frustration and despair.

“I’m sorry I pushed. I’m sorry I made you relive it all again,” he says, voice nearly breaking with the guilt. 

“It’s okay,” Kaladin says again, shrugging with one shoulder. “It’s not exactly pleasant to think about, but now you know.”

Now I know, Adolin thinks. Now I know why Kaladin can’t be intimate with other people. Now I know how something that is supposed to be special and joyful and beautiful has been taken from him and twisted into something ugly, something painful, something shameful.

A part of him wishes he’d never asked, just let Kaladin storm away and brood and come back the next day like nothing had changed. But a bigger part of Adolin knows that this is important. Sure, he pushed, but Kaladin could have shut him down; he has before. Adolin understands how monumental this moment is, and later, when he’s able to look beyond the pain, he knows he will feel grateful and honored that Kaladin would be willing to share this part of his past with him.

He finds himself in awe of Kaladin’s strength once again.

“Can I hug you?” 

He blurts it out, unexpected but also somehow exactly what he meant to say, and Kaladin must need it too because he doesn’t hesitate for even a second. He reaches out and tugs Adolin's body into his, Alethi propriety be damned, enveloping him in long, strong arms. Adolin clutches him tightly, face pressed into Kaladin’s shoulder.

Adolin feels a sudden sob clawing up his throat but forces it down; it hurts, his body shudders with it, but he refuses to let it escape. He’s already had his moment, already taken his comfort.

“Shh…” 

Kaladin hushes him gently, feeling the tremors still racing across Adolin’s skin. He rocks them both with tiny movements. Adolin wonders if this is how Kaladin’s mother hugs him when he’s upset. Adolin can’t remember if his own mother did the same for him when he was a child. If she ever did, he was too young to remember it. 

Kaladin is good at it. Adolin feels surrounded by his warmth, held and protected. He also feels supremely guilty; he should be the one holding and protecting, but he just doesn’t know if he has the strength with how unmoored he’s feeling, so he selfishly stays where he is.

“It’s okay, Adolin, it’s okay,” Kaladin is murmuring. His breath is warm on the side of Adolin’s face. Adolin clenches his teeth together but a small sound forces its way out anyway, an anguished little mewl, and Kaladin just holds him tighter.

Some measure of time passes, and eventually Kaladin rearranges them so that he’s lying mostly flat, head propped up on the armrest, and Adolin is squeezed between Kaladin and the back of the couch, head resting on Kaladin’s chest. Kaladin combs his fingers through Adolin’s hair, gently untangling any knots before brushing it flat again. His heartbeat is strong and steady beneath Adolin’s ear.

They lay there for a long time, taking comfort in the nearness, and Adolin forces himself to exist only in the now, where Kaladin is here with him, safe and whole, no longer a slave, no longer abused and mistreated and violated. He expects the need for closeness to fade as more time passes, that he’ll get up and go to his own rooms at some point, but it doesn’t fade and he doesn’t go. The idea of separating seems abhorrent, the thought of not being physically connected to Kaladin in some way a loathsome one, so he just doesn’t move. He stays, and Kaladin keeps letting him stay, maybe just as reluctant to move as he is, and eventually they both drift off into a calm, dreamless sleep, still curled tightly together.

***

They wake up the next morning still intertwined. Adolin has hazy memories of trying to pull Kaladin impossibly closer in the night, the need for physical touch drowning out rational thought, before sinking back into sleep again. Kaladin suffered it without complaint– or maybe he needed to be near someone, too, someone who cares for him and has never touched him with anything resembling the cruelty of his past. Maybe he needed that touch to drown out the memories they resurrected last night.

At that thought Adolin is suddenly wide awake, the memory of last night swiftly becoming sharp and clear, and Adolin inhales sharply. 

A hand drops onto the top of his head and begins to card through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. 

How is he still capable of such tenderness, after everything this world has put him through? 

Adolin’s heart breaks anew.

He gives himself one minute. One minute to get hold of his emotions. One minute to bask in the feeling of Kaladin’s gentle fingers combing through his hair, stopping to carefully work out any tangles that have cropped up in the night. It’s soothing, and by the time his self-imposed minute is up he’s feeling much calmer. 

He shifts his head a bit so he can look up at Kaladin, who is still reclining against the arm of the couch. Adolin’s neck twinges, rebelling against his choice of sleeping position. He can’t even imagine how Kaladin feels, propped up as he is. Though stormlight will probably help with that.

“Hey,” Kaladin says with a small smile, voice gravelly with lingering sleep. 

“Hey,” Adolin says back, sounding just as rough. He ducks his head into Kaladin’s chest again and squeezes the arm he has looped across Kaladin’s waist, not ready to let go just yet.

He hears a small huff of laughter and Kaladin squeezes him back with the arm tucked between their bodies and the couch. 

“You okay?” Kaladin asks softly after a minute. There’s no hint of accusation or judgment in his voice for Adolin’s breakdown the night before.

Adolin inhales deeply, breathes in the scent of him – wind and rain and warmth – and lets it out slowly. He nods. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” Adolin says. 

He is good, he thinks. The impromptu cuddle session helped. Though he’s been provided several new mental images of Kaladin as a slave that he knows aren’t going anywhere any time soon, right now he’s choosing to see the Kaladin in front of him today, his Kaladin. He knows those experiences are a part of Kaladin’s past and he doesn’t think he’s denying or invalidating that, but he believes that focusing on the now, on the gift of the man here with him today, is just as important. 

After indulging with one more deep breath, he pushes himself up, legs untangling from Kaladin’s as he shifts to sit on the couch properly. He tilts his head from side to side, feeling the stretch in the knotted muscles of his neck and shoulders.  

“Sorry,” Kaladin says, grimacing sympathetically.

“Nah, not your fault,” Adolin says, groaning as his neck pops several times. “No one forced me to use you as a pillow.”

Kaladin snorts and Adolin finds himself grinning. It feels good to smile.

He sobers again after a second, reaching out to gently place his hand over Kaladin’s on the cushion between their bodies. 

“Thank you, for telling me,” he says. He hopes Kaladin can see his sincerity. “I know it can’t have been easy. I appreciate you trusting me with it.”

“Of course I trust you,” Kaladin says. Like it was never even a question that he would trust Adolin with something so important.

“Are you okay?” Adolin asks. The question is long-overdue and Adolin feels like an absolute cremling, but Kaladin just gives him a little half-smile, turns his hand over underneath Adolin’s and gives him a small squeeze.

“I’m okay,” he says, and Adolin sighs, half relief and half resignation, because Adolin knows these kinds of things are never that simple.

He knows that “okay” doesn’t mean “healed”. It doesn’t mean that Kaladin has forgotten what was done to him, or that he doesn’t ever think about it anymore. It doesn’t mean he won’t still be affected by it, even years later. He may not be able to be intimate with a partner for a long time. Maybe not ever. He may still have panic attacks, might still be unable to talk about certain subjects.

But Kaladin has come a long way since the man he was when Adolin met him, and Adolin knows that Kaladin now knows it’s okay to not be okay, and that healing isn’t linear. Kaladin is, unfortunately, intimately familiar with set-backs.

Kaladin also has Adolin now. He knows (or at least Adolin hopes he knows, is going to make sure that he knows) that Adolin will be here for him for whatever he needs, whenever he needs it. 

Best of all, Kaladin trusts him. Kaladin chose to share this burden with Adolin, regardless of how they may have gotten there. He’s willing to let Adolin help carry the weight of the memories and the pain and the shame, and Adolin is nothing but grateful for the opportunity.

Adolin smiles, feeling lighter than he has since before Kaladin abandoned him at the bar last night. Those terrible images are still there, lingering in the dark corners of his mind, but he pushes them away, seeing Kaladin as he is now instead: strong, caring, radiant. 

There will be time for Adolin’s nightmares later.

“Do you want to come back to my apartments for breakfast? Shallan probably thinks I’m sleeping off a hangover in a back alley somewhere… I should probably tell her I’m still alive,” Adolin says, grimacing. If he had been hung over in a back alley, puking and miserable, Shallan would probably have said something along the lines of You deserve it, you storming idiot, and then she’d probably help him clean himself up anyway. 

He smiles at the thought. How did he get so lucky? To have the companionship of not just Shallan, but Kaladin, too? Two Knights Radiant, but, more importantly, two of the best people Adolin’s ever known. Some version of him must have done something very right in a past life.

Kaladin snorts and stands, rumpled shirt pulling tight as he stretches his arms above his head with a small groan of his own.

“Sure,” he says, reaching down and offering Adolin a hand. Adolin takes it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. 

Kaladin’s hair is in disarray and his eyes are slightly bloodshot, and Adolin is sure he looks just as exhausted; he can feel the puffiness in his face, the grittiness of his eyes, the aches in his body from sleeping on a couch that is, without question, far too small for two fully-grown soldiers. But the air feels lighter around them, somehow, like a wound that has been purged of infection and can now be allowed to heal. 

Adolin hopes that’s the case, hopes that by opening up and sharing his burden, Kaladin can move forward from it in whatever way he needs to.

“Breakfast sounds good,” Kaladin says. His smile is a warm balm, like sunlight on Adolin’s aching soul. 

Chapter Text

The moment Kaladin opened his eyes that morning he’d known with dreaded certainty that it was going to be a Bad Day. 

The silence in his small room smothered him, pressed in on him heavily, and he ached with loneliness. His nightmares lingered, refusing to give him respite from his losses, his failures. Sinuous darkness clung to the edges of his mind with sharp, tearing claws, digging deep, deep, until he could feel himself bleeding inside, drowning, suffocating. It only took him several breaths to wish he hadn’t woken up at all.

It didn’t help that this bastardized version of the weeping was sticking around longer than usual, either. The rain had been coming down nonstop for days, cold and monotonous, the skies a bleak, endless gray, stealing away one of his best escapes from his own mind. He itched to soar, to weave among the clouds and dance with the wind. 

Somehow he made it through training that morning, though his thoughts were far away. He was in a fog, viewing his life through a slightly blurred lens, one which he, resigned to his suffering, had no real desire to remove. He surfaced to give guidance to the newer windrunners on how to better manipulate their lashings, then quickly slipped under again. He felt separated from everyone and everything.

He returned to the barracks around midday, after training ended and everyone went their separate ways. He sat, alone, in the single dormitory room awarded to him as Highmarshal, losing track of time while he spiraled, his mind becoming more cruel and his thoughts more debilitating by the second. 

He knew he should do something, needed to do something to escape his agitation, but a part of himself, the deepest, darkest part, didn't want to. He wanted to feel this way. He deserved it. 

He’d failed so many people over the course of his short life. People who would never again have the opportunity to breathe, never smile, never laugh, never cry, never live. Because he hadn’t been fast enough, good enough, smart enough. Because he’d frozen when he’d needed to act. 

They haunted him every day, but on days like today their ghosts seemed closer to the periphery, prowling restlessly just below the surface. So many of them. Tien. Dallet. Nalma. Dunny. Elhokar. Countless slaves whose names he no longer remembered, fellow spearmen, doomed bridgemen. The soldiers on the walls of Kholinar, his friends, dying by one another's hands in the palace. Even Adolin, who was still here, still alive and breathing, often featured in his nightmares, waiting in vain for Kaladin to save him, if only he would just say the words. 

He didn’t say them. Not in real life and not in his dreams.

His weakness also gnawed at him, his lack of self-control. How shamefully easy it was for him to slip back into being the wretch. Had he even tried to hold it back this time? It seemed like he barely fought against it at all anymore, because, if he was being honest, what was the point? The wretch always returned. It never truly left him. 

“Kaladin…”

Kaladin barely heard the small voice over the noise in his head. Barely noticed that she was there at all. 

“I’m worried about you. Should I go get someone?”

She did sound worried. Almost scared. Her fear roused him enough that he could shake his head in the negative. No, company was the last thing he wanted right now. He loathed the thought of someone seeing him now, at his weakest. He didn’t want anyone’s concern, didn’t want someone worrying over him, trying and failing, always failing, to fix him. He couldn’t be fixed. This was who he was, inside. He was just competent at faking it most of the time.

He wanted the pain to stop. He wanted the throbbing, gaping wound in his chest to disappear. 

“...I’m going to go get Adolin.”

“Don’t,” he said. His voice was sharp, startling in its intensity. 

He saw Syl flinch but Kaladin couldn’t bring himself to care. Adolin Kholin was the last person he wanted to see him like this, especially after Shadesmar.

He forced his eyes to focus on Syl. She seemed anxious, flitting back and forth in the air in front of him spastically. He supposed it would be unnerving to watch someone sit so unnaturally still for such a long stretch of time; he hadn’t moved from his cot once since he’d returned from training. He’d probably been staring blankly at the wall for hours, unresponsive. She might have even tried talking to him previously, and he’d only just now noticed. 

“Sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse, scraping painfully in his throat. His misery relented just long enough to let shame have a turn. Another old friend.

“Just, please, no one else,” he said. He didn’t have the energy to explain further. 

Instead, he attempted to give her a smile. It felt strange on his face, forced, and Syl looked even more distressed at the sight of it, so he quickly let it drop.

“You can leave, you know,” he told her. 

There was no reason she needed to stay here with him, alone in the dark, no reason she should be condemned to despair just because he was.

“I don’t want to leave,” she said back, eyes wide and pleading. 

Kaladin gritted his teeth, sudden, hot anger rushing through him. Most times he found her loyalty admirable, but just then he needed to not be someone who dragged a literal piece of God down into Damnation with him. What kind of person did that make him, that he had the ability to corrupt something so inherently pure? 

“Just go, Syl,” he said. Again, it came out harsh, but this time he didn’t apologize. Maybe if he was mean enough she would finally leave him in peace. 

Peace. He would laugh at the irony if he could remember how.

She went, slowly and dejectedly, and he was finally, truly alone. He felt a sharp pang of loss, no matter that this was exactly what he’d asked for. 

He’d never actually liked being alone; it left him too much time to think. Tien had understood that when they were younger, seen through his moods to the truth of the matter, even if Kaladin had never said as much out loud. And later, in Shadesmar, Adolin had seen it, too.

And he had repaid Adolin by leaving him to die.

No, being alone was exactly what he deserved. Everyone he got close to ended up dead. It wasn’t worth it. Not for him and definitely not for them. He needed to stop being so careless, so selfish. Syl, especially, would be better off without him. She’d certainly be happier. 

Disgust at himself flowed thick and heady through his veins. He hated these moods, hated how they crippled him, but even more he hated how they brought to light truths he was too cowardly to face otherwise: how death and heartbreak stalked him like a shadow, and how, without a doubt, his friends would live longer, more peaceful lives without him.

Kaladin felt detached, yet at the same time strangely rational. He considered the logistics. 

There was no Honor Chasm in Urithiu, but there didn’t need to be. Would he travel all the way to the top, jump from the highest possible point to minimize the chance of accidental survival? Or would he simply step off the first balcony he came across once he left his room? There wasn’t one in his Highmarshal’s quarters, unfortunately; the barracks were packed tightly together near the base of the tower and very few of the rooms even had windows.

For a long moment he played with the idea of a scalpel, of slicing open the skin and watching the life drain out of his body. He could be clinical about it. Precise. He knew where to cut to cause the most damage. It would be poetic, he thought, with his history as a failed surgeon.

Then he imagined someone discovering his body, pale and cold, covered in congealed blood from self-inflicted wounds… He dismissed the idea. He couldn’t subject anyone to such a scene, wouldn’t be the cause of someone else’s nightmares. 

There was a small, distant part of his mind screaming at him to stop, to halt this train of thought before he did something he couldn’t come back from. It told him to call Syl back, to find someone, anyone , to help him. 

It was the part of him that knew he wasn’t in his right mind, knew that today’s darkness was one of his worst and that it couldn’t be trusted. But that darkness had taken hold too strongly now, and though he heard those pleas, he couldn’t heed them. 

He just wanted the pain gone. He never wanted to feel it again.

He knew the way out. He just had to be brave enough to take it.

He’d been there before, stood at the very edge of that chasm, but at the last moment he hadn’t been able to find the strength, and then Syl had swooped in, innocent and unknowing, and she’d saved him. 

He wouldn’t be strong enough this time either. He felt it in his bones. He was a coward. He had always been a coward.

Abruptly he stood. He stormed out of his room and down the hall to the shared kitchen, where a large pot of stew sat unattended, bubbling merrily over the hearth. It clashed discordantly in his brain, a visual reminder of good times when, right now, he felt like nothing would ever be good again. He gave it a wide berth on his way by, like he couldn’t bear to be anywhere close to something so good lest he contaminate it, and threw open the doors to an upper cabinet on the far wall where he knew Bridge Four stashed their contraband liquor.

Drink was the coward’s way out, so it was fitting for him. It was the path taken by someone who lacked the courage to just do what needed to be done, because it was slow, and painless, and also because they would be able to claim plausible deniability if they somehow failed in their final act. 

Kaladin’s mind was fractured, torn between the belief that the world would be better off without him, that this was the only real way to end his ceaseless pain, and a very real awareness of the fact that he wasn’t thinking straight, wasn’t in a good place, should never make a decision of this magnitude while in his current state of mind. 

He wanted to drown it all. All of the arguments for and against his continued existence. All the memories. All the fears. All the disgust, the self-hatred, the loneliness, the pain. It was too loud. Too much. 

The alcohol would do that for him. It whispered promises of peace and oblivion with every swallow. And if he drank too much in his attempt to find that relief, if he just didn’t stop drinking, at least it would all finally be over.

He stared at the rainbow of salvation spread out on the shelf before him, and he breathed out slowly, dispelling any stormlight that remained in his body. It seeped out of his skin in glowing wisps, lingering for just a moment before dissipating into the cold air around him. He watched it fade, and with it went the last lingering fragments of indecision. 

A sense of calm overtook him then, and he grabbed two of the largest bottles of white he could find before he turned and strode out of the room again. Shoving one of the bottles under one arm, he was able to twist open the cap of the other and take a large swallow that made his eyes water. He gasped a little at the taste, his throat on fire. The smoldering heat of the drink flowed down into his chest, then his belly, and he shuddered at the burn of it. 

Then, choice made, mind finally, blissfully blank, he let himself back into his room, the door falling shut quietly behind him.

***

Teft nearly jumped out of his skin when Kaladin’s glowing honorspren darted right through the closed door and into his room, fully visible and clearly panicked. 

“What–?”

He stood as quickly as his old bones allowed, heart racing, and heard Rock scrambling to do the same from his own low cot.

“Kaladin needs help!”

Her voice was high and almost hysterical.

“He’s not answering me, he won’t wake up, please, Teft, please help!”

Teft had heard all he needed to – he was out the door in a shot.

He raced down the stone corridor, Rock hot on his heels. They rounded a corner so close that Teft bashed his shoulder into it painfully but he didn’t slow down. Syl was zipping quickly ahead, leading them to Kaladin’s apartment, almost losing them around the tight turns, but Teft didn’t need her to show him the way – he knew how to get there. A good sergeant always knew where to find his captain.

By the time they reached their destination Syl had disappeared, most likely back inside with Kaladin. Teft wasted no time, pounding on the door with a heavy fist, shouting out Kaladin’s name. 

“Mafah’liki!” Rock called, and a moment later Syl materialized, manifesting suddenly next to Teft’s hand, which was still pounding on the worn wooden door. 

“You need to push it open, he’s leaning against the door. Hurry,” she said, twisting her hands together anxiously. The blue light emanating from her seemed to ebb and flow, like a pulse, and he didn’t know what that meant, if it even meant anything at all, but the strangeness of it made the worried knot in Teft’s stomach tighten. 

Teft turned the handle, which Kaladin had left unlocked, herald of luck be praised, and pushed, but the door barely opened an inch, a heavy weight blocking it from the other side. Teft leaned his shoulder against the wood and shoved harder. It gave another stubborn inch. 

“On three,” Rock said, planting huge hands on either side of Teft’s head.

“One… Two…. Three!” 

They pushed steadily, mindful of the fact that the resistance was Kaladin himself, apparently unconscious and unresponsive. When the gap was wide enough, Rock held the door while Teft squeezed through, then followed after himself.

The first thing Teft saw were the bottles. One was empty, resting on its side against the far wall, as if it had been discarded and rolled to a stop there. The second bottle laid next to Kaladin’s prone form, clear liquid spilling out of the neck to soak into Kaladin’s pant leg. The smell of alcohol was sharp in Teft’s nose and he cursed, kicking the bottle away with a clatter before kneeling next to the unconscious man.

Kaladin’s face was lax, unmoving. He looked nearly dead except for the small rise and fall of his chest. He was half-leaning against the door, which had mostly closed again without them to hold it open, legs sprawled awkwardly out in front of him. 

“Here, help me move him,” Teft said. Rock complied, pulling the younger man’s body to rest flat on the floor, out of the way of the room’s sole entry and exit point. Teft followed, still kneeling, and shook Kaladin’s shoulder gently but firmly.

“Come on, lad, time to get up now, there you go,” he said, his voice low and coaxing. There was no response. Not even a twitch, and Teft’s worry spiked.

He fumbled in his pocket for the pouch of spheres he always kept on him, pulling it out and pouring several into his palm. He held them out next to Kaladin’s slack mouth, watching for the telltale dimming that indicated Kaladin was breathing in the stormlight. 

The spheres continued to glow steadily. 

Placing the spheres carefully on Kaladin’s chest, Teft hovered his hand over the other man’s mouth and nose. The small puff of warm breath took a disturbingly long time to brush across his palm, and Teft immediately reached up to Kaladin’s neck, feeling for the pulse there. Kaladin’s skin was clammy and cold, his heartbeat slow and weak. Teft’s hand was shaking visibly when he drew it back.

Teft had been a soldier for a long time. He’d seen men drink away their sorrows and their losses, seen them drink themselves into unconsciousness more times than he could count.

This wasn’t that. This was something different.

Kaladin had poisoned himself.

There was no other word for it, no other explanation. There was no way Kaladin didn’t know what he was doing, absolutely no way he didn’t feel the effects as he consumed more and more of the liquor. Kaladin was a smart man, a surgeon. He knew exactly what that amount of alcohol would do to a body.

The very fact that Kaladin was lying there, empty of stormlight, comatose and possibly dying on the cold stone floor right now, meant that he’d planned this. He had stolen two large bottles of Horneater White, locked himself in his room, and drank as much as he could before he lost consciousness. 

Panic surged through Teft and he began to shake Kaladin roughly. The younger man’s head lolled to the side sickeningly. He looked so pale.

You will NOT die on me, lad. You saved me from myself too many times. Now it’s my turn to save you. 

Teeth gritted, worry and anger fighting for dominance within him, Teft slapped Kaladin hard across the face. 

Several of the spheres on Kaladin’s chest scattered across the floor with the force of the impact, but the few that remained flickered once, then dimmed, as Kaladin gasped in a small breath.

Teft felt weak with relief, trembling. He scrambled on hands and knees to collect the spheres that had fallen, then crawled hurriedly back over to shove them desperately next to the others.

They flickered with each small breath Kaladin took, as if unsure, as if fighting against the pull into Kaladin’s body, before their stormlight slowly faded. 

It was alarming how far gone Kaladin was, that his body had nearly forgotten how to instinctually heal itself, but Teft pushed the thought aside and focused instead on getting as much stormlight into him as possible.

“Here, is more,” Rock said from behind him, leaning over and pressing fresh, glowing spheres into Teft’s palm. Teft clutched them tightly, held them up near Kaladin’s mouth, feeding them little by little to his foolish, storms-cursed captain.

Kaladin’s breath seemed to ease the more stormlight he took in and his color gradually changed from shockingly pale to a more normal, rosy hue. He hadn’t regained consciousness by the time they ran out of infused spheres, but he didn’t look like he was knocking on death’s door anymore, either, so Teft had Rock carry him carefully to the unmade bed in the corner before sending him to find more stormlight.

The windrunner’s pulse was still slow and his skin was still clammy with sweat, but he was warmer, and his breathing was stronger, so Teft was calmer as he waited for Rock to return. 

“Storms, lad,” Teft sighed. He brushed Kaladin’s damp hair back from where it stuck to his forehead with sweat, kept petting him like he would a sick child. He’d never had children, but he imagined this was what it would feel like to watch one suffer when he was powerless to help them.

“I wish you had come to me,” he said, voice low and sorrowful. “Might not have been able to do much, but I could have tried, at least. Told you you’re not alone.”

Predictably there was no response from Kaladin, who slept on, ignorant to the heartache of the man sitting vigil by his bedside. 

Teft stayed there until Rock returned, and they fed him stormlight until his body refused to accept any more. He seemed to have mostly returned to normal, pulse strong and breathing regular; he even snored lightly in his sleep, fingers twitching occasionally as he dreamed. He didn’t wake, though; perhaps his body knew that despite the stormlight-fueled healing, he’d been through an ordeal, and he needed more time to recuperate.

He and Rock decided to stay quiet about what happened, keep the incident between the three of them. Kaladin didn’t need anyone else to know how close he’d come to ending his own life tonight. 

The two older men also weren’t strangers to the feeling; they’d been there with bridge four in the early days, when it seemed like the only choice they had about their own lives was how it could end. And they’d seen Kaladin’s struggle back then, had seen it ever since. It wasn’t something that was going to go away just because he suddenly had Radiant powers and a fancy new title. 

Kaladin’s hurt ran deeper than that; it was tied to who he was, and loving him meant also loving that part of him. They could pay better attention to signs of his mood shifting, to watch out for him when they inevitably did, but in the end, all they could really do was be there for him.

***

Teft stayed the night. They cleaned up the room as best they could, throwing out the bottles and scrubbing away the smell of alcohol. He curled up on the floor next to Kaladin’s bed, on a mat Rock dragged in for him, and hardly slept at all, haunted by the image of Kaladin, face waxy, body cold and unmoving, unable to breathe in stormlight even to save his own life. He ruminated on Kaladin’s struggles, and his own, considered ways they could look out for the younger man moving forward. 

The next morning Rock returned, bringing a breakfast of bread and stew for each of them. Kaladin woke at the sound of the door opening and tears sprang to Teft’s eyes at the sight of him finally awake. He turned away to wipe his face, disguising his motions as rubbing sleep from his eyes.

The three of them ate together, Teft and Rock sitting on the floor with their backs to the wall, making small talk, as Kaladin refused to look at either of them in his shame. 

Afterwards, as Rock gathered the bowls and Teft began to straighten up his makeshift bed, Kaladin whispered, I’m sorry , and Rock smiled and hugged him, and said simply, You are ours, Ula’makai, Teft saw how the younger man clinged desperately, how he squeezed the Horneater tightly before letting go.

And when Rock bustled out with the dirty dishes, and Teft sat next to Kaladin on his cot and put his arm around him, he pulled the younger man down so that Kaladin’s head rested on his shoulder, and he said, I’ve got you, lad. I’ve got you.

Chapter Text

Adolin

The large meeting room is warm, but not uncomfortably so. A fire burns merrily in the hearth on the far wall, and the gathering of soldiers and former bridgemen sits in front of it, close enough to feel its heat but not so close that it burns against their skin. The long conference table is pushed up against the side wall and the wooden chairs are arranged into something resembling a circle, a small workbench in the center holding a teetering pile of cards.

Laughter ricochets off the stone walls as the men place bets on their hands; glowing spheres of increasing value, kitchen cleanup duty for a week, an expensive pair of custom-made leather boots.

Kaladin finds Adolin across the circle and raises an eyebrow at him; Adolin grins back. He’s heard the story of Kaladin and Shallan’s first meeting from both sides, remembers Kaladin’s wedding gift to Shallan. The mention of boots will always make the three of them smile – well, at least two of them; Kaladin will probably grumble and glare, but by this point everyone knows that’s just Kaladin-speak for a smile.

Somehow nearly all of Bridge Four has the same night off – a rare occurrence, as Dalinar views the former bridgemen as his elite and prefers to have at least a few of them on guard during every rotation. Kaladin told Adolin that morning that the men were talking about setting up a card game and invited him along, and Adolin immediately canceled his meeting and told Kaladin to bring the group of them up to the suddenly-available meeting room later that evening. Adolin wasn’t surprised to see a number of Kholin soldiers arrive along with them; he knew several of them were friendly with the windrunners, had seen them mingling at taverns and on the training fields. 

It’s been a good night so far, full of camaraderie and smiles and laughter.

One of the windrunners shouts that he needs a new drink, holding his mug in the air like he’s expecting a server to bustle over and pour him a refill. He is shoved almost off his seat by his buddies, told in no uncertain terms to go get his own storming drink, and he laughs good-naturedly before standing to do so.

“Anyone need another?” he calls over the hubbub, and Adolin sees Kaladin throw back the rest of his own drink before handing over his cup, along with a few others. The man who did the shoving a moment ago holds out his own goblet and is rebuffed, but he just laughs, too, and rises to join the other man, grabbing a few more glasses before they go over to the jugs of chilled ale sitting on the conference table Lopen and his cousins had somehow acquired for the evening’s festivities.

It’s Adolin’s turn and he leans forward to toss down a Tower card, which earns him a few groans and an attempted kick in the shin. He dodges the blow and grins smugly.

A few more turns go by before the drink-bearers return and redistribute the beverages. Adolin watches as Kaladin leans backward in his seat, arm extending out behind the chair next to him to reach for his cup. The movement pulls at his shirt, exposing his lower stomach, revealing lean muscles and tanned skin dusted with dark hair. 

Adolin refuses to feel guilty for looking. You’d have to be an ardent not to, and even then ardents would probably still ogle at the sight currently in front of him. Kaladin is a specimen of a human being. He’s the whole package, tall and muscular and handsome with a dash of dark and brooding, and once you add in his honor, his cleverness, and his kindness, it’s impossible not to want him. He’s also storming hilarious when he lets himself be. And anyway, looking isn’t a crime.

The shirt slips down again as Kaladin shifts back into his chair, and Adolin looks away, disappointed. His eyes flick up to Kaladin’s face and he freezes.

Kaladin is staring right at him.

Adolin’s heart pounds in his ears, his breath stuck in his lungs as he watches Kaladin watch him, knowing he’s been caught looking. Will Kaladin be angry? Disgusted? Will he laugh it off as a joke? Will he pretend it never happened? 

They sit, unmoving, eyes locked. Kaladin’s expression is unreadable. Adolin feels like he might combust. It lasts for torturous, neverending seconds. 

Then Kaladin’s eyelashes flutter, and his gaze dips down, to Adolin’s expensive custom-made leather boots, and then he rakes his eyes all the way up Adolin’s body, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.

When he reaches the top, when his gaze meets Adolin’s again, his face is still blank, but his eyes. Oh storms, his eyes are anything but. 

They are blazing, burning through him, flaying open his skin and searing straight into his soul. The intensity nearly makes him gasp; his hand twitches in his lap – it wants to jump straight to his mouth to cover it, like a young woman seeing a man naked for the first time, shocked and swooning. He clenches his hand into a tight fist, lets a shaky breath escape through his mouth quietly, and Kaladin’s blistering gaze finally relents, his eyes flicking down to Adolin’s lips instead.

Adolin’s body lights up, burning hot, freezing cold. He shivers.

Kaladin’s eyes fly up and Adolin is immediately back in his thrall, but then Kaladin is turning to the side; someone is speaking to him, pulling his attention away. His eyes linger even as his body shifts, still locked on Adolin, until he finally, finally, looks away.

There is no hope for recovery at this point. Adolin does what he can to return to something resembling normalcy, but it’s an uphill battle; all he can think about is those eyes , the way that Kaladin nearly sent him off the proverbial cliff just from looking at him. He doesn’t know what to make of it, can’t comprehend any of the possible meanings behind such a look. He needs to be alone right now. He needs time to cool down. Time to think.

The laughter that minutes ago was jovial and festive is now a discordant noise in his ears. He tries taking a drink of his ale but his throat is too tight, allowing him only a small sip before closing completely. Anxiety and desire clash inside him, neither coming out the victor, leaving him feeling off-kilter.

He makes it through another few rounds, laughing along with the others, dishing out quips when he feels it’s expected of him. He avoids looking in Kaladin’s direction. Thirty minutes later he makes up an excuse, spouting something about his father and a report he’s been putting off that he has to complete or he’ll be disowned, and the guys heckle him and call him some rather inventive names, but they let him leave without too much fuss, so he goes.

He steps out of the sweltering room, breathes in a lungful of cool night air, and flees. 

***

Kaladin

Adolin won’t look at him.

They’ve gone around the entire circle three times now, started a new storming round, and Adolin hasn’t even glanced in his direction.

Kaladin is annoyed. 

He considers Adolin one of his closest friends, on a level with Rock and Teft, but also very different from them. Even though both Bridge Four and Adolin have seen him at some of his lowest points, his crew tends to put him on a pedestal, while Adolin never has. Adolin has always been able to see right through him, has never been too afraid or too intimidated to call him out on his chullshit. He’s always made a point to tell Kaladin like it is, good or bad, and he’s always been there to help Kaladin through the fallout.

Adolin has never hidden his admiration for Kaladin; for his fighting skills, his leadership, his ability to persevere. He’s also never been shy about telling Kaladin how attractive he is, always poking fun at the men and women lining up at the clinic to see him, saying things like, Of course, I sympathize, it’s only natural to want to be around someone like you, with your – expansive hand gesture – everything. 

He’s waxed poetic about seeing Kaladin training shirtless with the spear, about how long and graceful he is when he moves through katas, about how lovely Kaladin would look in some of Adolin’s fancy clothes. Shallan always agrees with him, both of them enjoying the way Kaladin gets all flustered.

So Kaladin knows that Adolin thinks he’s attractive; he’s aware most people think that. He wasn’t surprised , exactly, to see Adolin checking him out earlier. He just… wasn’t prepared. He wasn’t prepared to see such naked want in his best friend’s gaze, when he’d always been so blithe about Kaladin’s attractiveness before. 

It was heady. He felt almost drugged, seeing Adolin look at him like that. He’s not a stranger to lustful looks, because of his looks and his popularity around Urithiru. But to receive a look like that from Adolin, someone he actually likes and admires in turn… 

He let himself look back. Let himself drag his eyes shamelessly across Adolin’s entire body, observing (not for the first time) how good looking he is, how the muscles gained from dueling since childhood have shaped his form into something statuesque. He noted his thick thighs, his wide chest, his strong arms. Inspected the sharp jaw, the straight nose, the striking two-toned hair. He studied Adolin’s bright blue eyes, wide and shocked.

And then Adolin pursed his lips, letting out a breath, and Kaladin couldn’t help the way his eyes shot down, finding those lips full and pink, and a sudden flare of heat shot through him at the sight. 

When he looked back up Adolin was still staring at him, frozen. That moment may have gone on forever, Kaladin thought, but then Lopen started speaking to him about what his next move should be because, surprise to no one, Lopen had accidentally seen his hand and now wanted to give him unsolicited advice. By the time Kaladin looked back, Adolin was chatting amiably with the soldier next to him, laughing at some inside joke.

Kaladin continued to sneak glances at him over the next half hour, waiting for Adolin to meet his eyes again, to crack a smile or wink or even nod his head at the door, indicating he wanted to talk. But Adolin never even looked his way, acted as if Kaladin wasn't there at all, and frustration began to simmer in his gut, more with each passing minute.

Kaladin grits his teeth. He hasn’t been this worked up over Adolin since their days on the Shattered Plains, back before their animosity turned into mutual respect, which turned into genuine friendship, which turned into… whatever this is.

He doesn’t understand. Adolin has never been ashamed of expressing his admiration, never been shy about telling Kaladin he thinks he’s attractive, or about how highly he thinks of him, has even said he loves him on occasion–

Oh. Oh.

Adolin loves him.

The thought rocks him. It makes no sense, but it also makes too much sense. 

Adolin loves him. 

He’s always loved him. He’s never shied away from that. 

Kaladin just hasn’t been listening.

Maybe Adolin is acting this way because he hadn’t intended to be caught looking, hadn’t intended to be caught wanting . Maybe this isn’t even the first time Adolin has wanted him… Maybe it’s just the first time Kaladin’s seen it.

Kaladin is snapped out of his revelation as he hears Adolin laugh, and he looks up and to see Adolin standing, clapping the man next to him on the shoulder amicably. 

“Sorry, sorry, I’ve really got to go,” he’s saying. There’s a chorus of boos, and Adolin just waves them off and shrugs wryly, telling them that his payment for rescheduling tonight’s meeting is to write a full report for his father, and Dalinar would not accept no for an answer.

They let him leave soon after, and almost as soon as he’s out the door Kaladin is standing to follow, muttering excuses to Lopen next to him, who may or may not hear him; Kaladin doesn’t wait to find out.

He breaks into a jog once he exits the room, following the sound of footsteps around a corner, and he sees Adolin, walking briskly ahead of him toward the lifts.

Kaladin speeds up, steps clearly audible on the stone floor, but Adolin doesn’t turn around.

Kaladin slows just behind him, then reaches out to catch Adolin’s wrist, pulling the other man to a stop.

“Adolin.”

Adolin turns and smiles at him, and if he didn’t know Adolin as well as he does Kaladin would think everything’s perfectly fine, that nothing is strange at all and nothing has changed. But Kaladin does know him, and he can see the tightness around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. 

“Oh, hey, Kal!” Adolin says, like he’s surprised to find Kaladin there, like he didn’t expect Kaladin to come after him. “What, too much fun and not enough work for the High Marshal? Already missing the thrill of composing military reports? We have got to find you a hobby.” 

“Adolin,” Kaladin repeats, voice soft, ignoring the jibes. He pulls on Adolin’s wrist, turning them so they’re fully square, facing one another.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just looks at Adolin, watches as his mask slowly slips away. Kaladin reaches up with his free hand and gently touches the line of Adolin’s jaw, follows it back to the soft hairs behind his ear. Adolin’s breathing hitches. Kaladin brushes a thumb along his cheekbone, down his nose. Traces a light finger along the seam of his lips. 

“Kal,” Adolin says in a strangled voice.

“Shush,” Kaladin murmurs. Then he cups Adolin’s cheek and pulls him in, tilts Adolin’s head up slightly and presses their lips together. The hand still holding Adolin’s wrist slides down to weave their fingers together and Adolin’s hand clenches his desperately.

He keeps it light, coaxing, and Adolin responds, lips moving against his. Kaladin’s stomach flips and his hand slides from Adolin’s cheek into his hair, threading through the thick strands. Adolin gives a quiet little moan and Kaladin pulls away to catch his breath.

They stare at each other. Kaladin feels like he’s been hit with a shardhammer and it doesn’t look like Adolin’s faring much better. His eyes are glazed, his breath coming in little pants, and Kaladin watches as that familiar smile slowly creeps across that handsome, beloved face, and Kaladin wants.   

Then, suddenly, the guilt comes rushing in, the terrible knowledge that he’s just helped Adolin break oaths to someone they both love. But… how can that be true? How can it be true when this has always been there, when this just feels like an extension of who they already were?

“What about Shallan?” Kaladin asks Adolin, because he has to ask. He can’t pretend she doesn’t matter, can’t pretend she’s not part of this, no matter how natural kissing Adolin might feel.

Surprisingly, Adolin’s smile grows.

“She feels the same way,” he says, eyes twinkling.

Kaladin blinks. 

“What?”

Adolin gives a little chuckle. He touches Kaladin’s face with his free hand, tucks an errant bang behind his ear.

“She feels the same way,” he repeats. “We both decided long ago that if either of us ever got the chance, if you ever gave us the chance, that we should take it.”

“What?” Kaladin says again, stunned. He can’t be hearing this right. “Why didn’t – why didn’t you say anything, if you both felt this way?” he asks. He feels like he’s hallucinating.

Adolin gives a small shrug. His smile has turned soft and almost wistful. 

“We didn't want to scare you away. We didn’t know if you’d feel the same, and didn’t want to push you into anything.”

Kaladin chews on this for a minute. 

“But what if…” he trails off. 

Adolin seems to understand what he’s asking anyway.

“If you only wanted one of us?” Kaladin nods. Adolin smiles again.

“We’d be okay with that, too. We know what we want is unconventional, in a lot of ways, and if one or all of them didn’t sit right with you we would accept that.”

Adolin must sense Kaladin’s doubt because he squeezes the hand still wrapped around Kaladin’s and continues.

“Kaladin, if you decided right now that you only wanted to be with Shallan, I would be fine with that, as long as you were still my friend,” he says earnestly, and Kaladin can sense no lie in the words.

“I–” he starts, then gives up.

He can’t deal with this right now. He will need to think on this later, consider all the consequences of what something like this would mean for all of them, and if it’s even something he would want. But right now, he has Adolin Kholin, standing in front of him with his perfectly stupid hair and his perfectly charming smile, and Kaladin just wants to kiss him.

So he does. 

***

Adolin

The first kiss was slow, sweet, tender. 

The next one is something else completely.

Kaladin yanks Adolin to him roughly and their lips crash together. Hands push and pull, greedy, desperate. Adolin licks Kaladin’s lips and they part on a gasp, allowing him to press in fully, savoring the taste of the other man. They pull apart, panting, and Kaladin dives into the junction of Adolin’s shoulder and neck. He bites the skin there and Adolin groans, shocks running down his spine, and then he kisses the mark tenderly, and Adolin whimpers. 

Adolin wants him in a way he’s never wanted anyone before in his life. It’s ravaging, all-consuming, and he sinks his fingers into the curls at the back of Kaladin’s head and pulls . The sound that Kaladin makes is one he will remember for the rest of his life.

He pulls Kaladin’s head back and exposes the front of his throat. Kaladin’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut and his chest is heaving with labored breaths. Adolin licks a stripe from his collarbone to his Adam’s apple and Kaladin shudders. 

“I don’t–” Kaladin says, gasping. “I’ve never–”

Adolin knows this already, but he’s grateful for the reminder. He forces himself to slow, lessens his grip on Kaladin’s hair, and presses gentle kisses up the side of Kaladin’s neck. He wraps his arms around the other man, pulling their bodies close, and presses their cheeks together. 

“And we don’t have to now,” he says softly. He runs his nose up Kaladin’s cheek, nuzzles into the hair falling over his temple. The other man trembles in his arms. “I’m happy with just this.”

“Do you mean that?” Kaladin whispers.

Adolin pulls back to look at him. He needs Kaladin to understand this, to truly believe what he’s saying. Nothing will ever be as important as this moment.

“Kaladin, listen to me,” he says seriously. Kaladin stares at him, brown eyes shining. Storms. He’s the most beautiful man I've ever seen. 

“If this is all we ever do, if we never go any farther than what we’ve done right now, even if we never do it again, I’ll still consider myself the luckiest man on Roshar.”

Kaladin’s lip wobbles dangerously, but Adolin’s not done. He has to make sure Kaladin understands. 

“I will never push you into something you’re not comfortable doing, and neither will Shallan. And we will never, ever judge you for that.”

Adolin sees tears well up in Kaladin’s eyes and he pulls them together so that their foreheads touch. 

“Hey. Hey,” he says softly. Kaladin doesn’t respond but he presses a little harder into Adolin, squeezes him tighter to let him know he’s listening.

“I love you, Kal,” Adolin says, like an oath, like a promise . He’s said it before, but this time it feels different. It feels freeing. It feels like Kaladin might finally see, might finally understand.

He would go to Damnation and back for this man. He would sail the Ocean of Origins and brave the Everstorm and condemn himself to Braize for eternity. He would give up his own life to save Kaladin’s in a heartbeat and he would destroy anyone who wished him harm without hesitation. His devotion to this man is fathomless.

Kaladin is a force of nature. He doesn't see it, doesn’t understand the effect he has on others, doesn’t think himself worthy of their attention, their admiration, their love. But he receives it all the same. 

Adolin knows he’s not the only one who feels this way. He’s just the one lucky enough to be here, holding Kaladin in his arms, being loved in return.

Kaladin nods, seemingly unable to speak. Adolin doesn’t mind. He already knows, and if Kaladin can’t say the words right now, if he can never say the words, Adolin will still know. 

He’ll say it enough for both of them. 

Chapter Text

Kaladin would have hated the rain.

It’s a recurring thought these days for Adolin, especially during his long journey northward. It’d crossed his mind way back at the beginning, too, more than four years ago now. How much Kaladin would hate it when he finally returned. 

Kaladin had always hated the Weeping, and this new, ceaseless storm is just a Weeping with no end.

***

Adolin hasn’t felt dry since leaving Azir. The constant precipitation soaks through his clothes and into his very bones as he travels, moving carefully through enemy territory under the cover of darkness. The heavy humidity in the air never quite allows his clothes to fully dry during his brief rests, even the times he’s lucky enough to stumble upon an empty home in an abandoned town. Sleeping in an actual bed is infinitely preferable to sleeping in a cave or barely-sheltered hollow, though, damp clothes or not.

He left Azimir nearly two months ago (alone, and against the wishes of many, taking only Maya in her prosthetic form). Since then he’s walked nearly two thousand miles, hiking through desert and plain, crossing over river and mountain. He stayed within the borders of Azir for as long as possible before scaling the northern mountains into Babatharnam, then descended again and skirted the edge of the mountain range all the way north to Iri.

Since the moment he crossed Azir’s border the rain fell relentlessly, puddling in the plains and creating lakes not yet drawn onto existing maps, flowing down from the hills and mountains in rivulets and streams and raging rivers. The borders of the flooded Purelake now reach almost to the inland mountain border of Babatharnam. Adolin was forced to hire a boat on more than one occasion to get across a body of water that hadn’t even existed four years ago.

He stays in Eila for only the time it takes for the sky to turn dark again before tackling the final leg of his journey. It takes him several exhausting days to traverse the rocky highlands of Shinovar in the near-complete darkness, moons hidden behind the ever-present clouds. He proceeds slowly and cautiously over terrain that was already dangerous before all the rain, and is deadly now.

In the middle of these highlands is a small town, and just outside the town sits a small dwelling. The home backs up to a large orchard, with an old but obviously well-loved wagon parked around the side of the structure. Adolin stops there just as the clouds begin to lighten with what little sunlight humankind is afforded these days, to inform the residents of his presence and his intention, but he doesn’t stay long, impatient to reach his true destination before what passes for full daylight arrives.

He climbs slowly, the steep hill littered with small rocks that dislodge under his feet, nearly causing him to fall more than once. The pebbles roll down the incline, eventually splashing into one of several small streams that trickle along the worn footpath. It might be Adolin’s imagination, but he feels like the rain falls lighter here in Shinovar than in the other lands he’s passed through, more of a mist than a full rain.

Or maybe it’s not his imagination, and the magic of this hallowed, haunted place somehow holds the brunt of Retribution’s punishment at bay.

He comes upon a steeper portion of the path, more steps than slope now, and lunges from one flat area to the next, navigating around boulders and large outcroppings in the stone. It’s a challenging climb, even as the darkness continues to recede, even with Maya’s help, and after ten minutes he’s sweating despite the cool mist, his breath coming in quick pants. He’s only been hiking the highlands for less than a week, and his body is still not acclimated to the higher elevation.

Then, finally, he crests the final ridge. 

He’s never been to this place before but he’s heard descriptions of it, knows the stories of Aharietiam well, and he looks around himself, feeling a strange blend of weariness and awe and dread at the sight that lies before him.

A large pillar of stone towers above him, a looming backdrop to the flat area at its base. Out to either side of his plateau all he can see is gray; the rock floor ends suddenly in a sheer drop, cliff sides almost vertical plunges into crevasses deeper than the chasms on the Shattered Plains. Where before one may have been able to see neighboring landforms, now the misty rain swallows it all, leaving the place feeling remote and otherworldly.

Adolin feels like he’s in a place humans were never meant to be.

His steps are slow as he crosses the rock-strewn plateau, boots splashing in the few shallow puddles reflecting the gray sky. It’s always disconcerting, being this high up with no safety net; no shardplate, and no Windrunners to catch him should he fall.

When he reaches what he estimates to be the middle of the flat area he stops.

He stands in the exact location where the Heralds abandoned the Oathpact millennia ago. Adolin imagines he can still make out the slits in the ground from the Herald’s Honorblades, now filled with centuries of wet sand and crem. 

He’s standing in a place of Gods.

This is where Kaladin died.

The thought is sudden, and it surprises him, though it shouldn’t; it’s the entire reason for Adolin’s pilgrimage. But somehow, being here, being in this real, physical space where Kaladin’s life ended… It ruins him.

Adolin’s legs give out abruptly as his strength leaves him. He falls to his knees hard on the stone ground, but he barely feels the impact. The pain of loss shatters him anew, fresh and devastating. 

A large part of him hadn’t truly believed it until this moment. Even after speaking with Masha and Szeth earlier, even after hearing the tale straight from the source, he’d somehow still found it within himself to hope.

He stood, in the face of unfathomable despair, and shielded me. Szeth told him.

The Wind accepted his Words, Masha said, standing hand in hand with Szeth, watching Adolin with eyes that were both sorrowful and full of worship. She lives, as do the spren, though we know not how. Only that Kaladin was there, at the end.

We buried him, Szeth told him.

Then Adolin asked where, and they showed him the path, and he left behind that cottage full of warmth and contentment and continued on his journey, so close to where he needed to go, so close to the end.

Though there is nothing on the plateau now, no lasting evidence of what happened here, no body with charred, burned-out eyes staring sightlessly at him, being in this place finally hammers it home in a way that mere words hadn’t be able to for Adolin – Kaladin isn’t coming back this time.

His tired eyes burn. There is a well of agony unfolding in his chest. A piece of him has been torn out, leaving a gaping hole in his soul where Kaladin used to be. He gasps in a painful breath, lungs spasming, every bone and muscle and tendon in his body aching with tension. 

He stares into the misty rain, vision blurred, imagining how Kaladin defied the power of a Herald, how he protected Szeth despite the immeasurable anguish. Adolin pictures how Kaladin pushed himself up with trembling arms and stood, proud and strong despite the agony of immortals thrust upon him.

He sees it so clearly in his mind, and Adolin loves him fiercely, excruciatingly.

Loved him. 

No. Loves him. 

Kaladin’s death doesn’t change that. Adolin loves him, and he will always love him, for his perseverance, his strength, his sense of honor. He loves him for his friendship. For his stubbornness, and his scowl, and his darkness. His laughter, so rare and so precious, his smile, his kindness. He misses all of it. It hurts , how much he misses it.

What hurts most of all is the knowledge that Kaladin deserved so much more than some tragic, sacrificial ending. Kaladin deserved rest, and happiness, and peace. Instead, he’d been killed. Murdered.

Kaladin gave nearly everything to protect those he loved. Apparently nearly hadn’t been enough. 

It makes Adolin so uselessly, impotently angry.

He bends, slamming his fists onto the stone ground, and pain shoots up his hands and into his forearms. He does it again, and again , a primal, animalistic sound torn from deep within his chest. Maya doesn’t try to speak to him. She knows him well, and lets him have this, lets him feel this, because the only way out is through. 

The tears don’t fall, not yet; they burn away in the face of his fury, and he spits curses to the stones and the sky and the Wind, though he knows they cannot hear him.

His anger ebbs slowly, little by little, until only exhaustion is left, suddenly rushing through his body and making him shiver. He sits back onto his feet, still kneeling, head bowed. He is no longer shielded by the fiery burn of rage and the grief returns full-force, gnawing and tearing and inescapable. 

Finally, the tears fall.

***

He visits Kaladin’s grave after. 

We buried him, Szeth told him. Near the orchard.

Masha said, He deserves to rest somewhere beautiful .

Adolin agrees. Kaladin deserves much more than that, but if somewhere beautiful was all they were able to give him, then they were right to do so. 

The spot they’d picked for Kaladin is protected by a low tree with small white blossoms, marked only by a large stone against the tree’s trunk. It’s been years since they buried him and the grass has grown back over whatever soil had been disturbed. A small arrangement of fresh flowers sits leaning against the stone marker. 

He supposes it is a beautiful place, sheltered from the rain, quiet and peaceful. Looking at the bouquet, knowing that Szeth and Masha put such care into maintaining Kaladin’s resting place, eases his pain, just a little.

He walks reverently up to the stone and crouches in front of it. On closer inspection he sees it is not blank; a small inscription is carved into it – the Alethi glyph for Wind.

He reaches out to press a hand to the stone, eyes burning once again. It’s a poor substitution for Kaladin but it’s all he has left of him, so he touches it, hand pressed flat to the engraved surface, and his delirious mind tells him that he feels a soft warmth emanating from it as he does. Maybe, somehow, Kaladin knows he’s here, knows Adolin is thinking of him, is missing him. Adolin likes the idea of that.

He rearranges his aching body into a more comfortable sitting position, keeping his hand pressed to the stone, and stays that way for a long time, small beads of water gathering on the leaves above him and dripping gently to the ground around him. He knows the sorrow he feels at Kaladin’s death will never fully leave him, but strangely that doesn’t worry him. Instead, it’s a comfort, to know that the memory of Kaladin will become his constant companion, that Kaladin will never truly leave him. 

His hand is warm when he pulls it away from the stone, the air sharply cool against the skin of his palm. He presses it gently to the chill ground by his feet.

He closes his eyes and remembers Kaladin. The way he would smile at Adolin from across a sticky bar table at Jez’s Duty. The warmth of his arms when he’d hugged Adolin goodbye for the last time. The shockingly stupid things he’d sometimes say that never failed to make Adolin laugh. The wickedly sharp sense of humor. 

He remembers the Wretch, curled in on himself on the stone floor, drowning in his own pain but still finding the bravery to let Adolin help. The fear in Kaladin’s eyes as he leaned over Adolin in Shadesmar, trembling. How he’d saved Adolin on the Tower, irreverent and powerful in his slave’s clothing. His completely unfounded fear of horses. 

He thinks fondly of the freedom that never failed to soften Kaladin’s sharp features when he took to the air, soaring high over the mountains around Urithiru, becoming one with the wind and sky, as he was always meant to be.

Thank you. I miss you. I won’t waste your sacrifice.

He takes a deep breath, then he stands up.

Soon, he will begin the long journey home. Soon, he will rejoin the fight, find a way to keep moving forward in this changed world. 

But all of that can wait just a bit longer. 

Today, he steps out from under the protection of Kaladin’s tree and back into the rain, letting it soak him again. He closes his eyes and tilts his head up to the sky, not knowing why he does so, just following his instincts. The rain, for all that it is Retribution’s, feels like it cleanses him then, washing out his wounds, giving him space to heal, to reform into something new.

He smiles, feeling oddly at peace. Then, slowly, he makes his way back to the cottage, where the promise of a warm bed and a bowl of horneater stew awaits him.

Chapter Text

It starts with something small and it ends with Kaladin huddled against the stone wall of a rarely-used hallway somewhere on the ground floor of Urithiru, drowning in a memory and gasping for breath.

His vision has tunneled, narrowing down to a singular point on the stone in front of him, but he hardly sees it; he’s lost in the past, in a moment in time he wishes he could forget. He remembers the feel of heavy, forceful hands on him, foreign and unwelcome, and shudders. He can almost feel the weight of the restraints keeping him immobile, preventing any chance of escape.

He knows he’s breathing much too quickly, knows his body needs him to slow down, relax, take the air in slowly, but he can’t. It’s too much too fast, the sudden onslaught of memories like a shardhammer to the forehead, and he'd forced it back, held it in for as long as possible but it’s free now, battering him from all directions, and he can’t do anything to shield himself from the destruction.

It wasn’t even anything big. Just some of the Windrunners training their hand to hand skills, practicing how to fight without flying and without weapons, learning to grapple. Teft claims he’s too old to roll around on the ground unless his life depends upon it, so he shoves this kind of training onto the younger members of Bridge Four, and, since Kaladin made an appearance today, he was the one chosen to lead the demonstration.

They sparred like normal, like Kaladin does nearly every day of his life as a soldier, and Kaladin took Drehy down to the ground after only a few minutes of dodging and feinting and glancing blows. Drehy, never one to quit at the first obstacle, grabbed him around the ankle and yanked him to the floor, and then they wrestled for control, rolling over the sandy ground of the training area.

Kaladin ended up on top, holding Drehy down with his body weight, a forearm pressed firmly across the blonde man’s thick neck, and then Drehy bucked his hips and twisted his core at the same time, throwing Kaladin off balance. 

He caught himself on hands and knees and just as he turned to get Drehy back in his sights the other man shoved him to the ground, grabbing his wrists in a tight hold behind Kaladin’s back, and Kaladin just froze.

It was the fingers wrapping around his wrists, held at the small of his back, that sent him spiralling into another time, another place.

Drehy, perhaps sensing something wrong, immediately climbed off of him, and Kaladin was able to hold the panic at bay long enough to stand and congratulate him on a good fight, shaking his hand, though he avoided the other man’s eyes as he did – he could tell Drehy was concerned, but there was no way in damnation he was going to talk about this to anyone. Right then he just needed to get away, to be alone.

He doesn’t recall leaving the training area or walking through the passages of the ancient tower. He only remembers finally collapsing against a cold stone wall the moment he thought he was alone, and then he proceeded to have a mental breakdown.

Vivid images flash behind his eyes of a stark room, blood on his clothes, the burning red-orange of a hot iron brand, fresh out of the fire. Sounds, such awful, horrific sounds, assault him, and he whimpers, clapping his hands over his ears to shut them out, though it does no good. The sounds are inside his head, in his memories.

The smell of sweat and blood and sharp cologne. The feeling of stone scraping his chest and face raw, the taste of blood and tears. 

He trembles uncontrollably, shivering so hard his teeth chatter, eyes squeezed tight and knees drawn up to his chest. Everything hurts; his soul, his body. His sense memory is reminding him of the harrowing pain, of the debilitating shame, and his chest feels like it’s caving in.

He sucks in breath after breath but he can’t get enough air and black spots start to dance across his vision. He’s dizzy, and terrified, and he’s so far gone he doesn’t remember being Kaladin Stormblessed, Knight Radiant and Highmarshal. He’s just Kal, the slave, something less than human. He’s just a thing to be bought and sold and used at a Brightlord’s will.

_____

“I won’t wait so long next time, yeah?” Adolin says to Gallant, patting his huge flank. The Ryshadium snorts at him, but flicks his tail and nudges him gently, so Adolin believes he's been forgiven for his prolonged absence.

He gives the horse one more good pat then leaves the stable, making his way back to the tower. He sees the Windrunners in the distance, working on hand to hand combat in the training area, and has half a mind to detour in that direction and watch a few bouts. But he doesn’t see Kaladin’s tall frame among the crowd, which is who he really wants to watch – he loves it when someone is able to take Kaladin Stormblessed down in a sparring match, the man needs to lose every now and then – so he continues onward, heading back for a shower and a quick lunch after his long morning ride with Gallant.

The corridors leading out to the stables from the tower are more narrow, used much less often than the larger hallways near the barracks and officers’ quarters. They’re darker, with infrequent sphere sconces, and quieter, which is why he hears Kaladin before he sees him.

The sound of pained whimpering has Adolin suddenly picking up his pace, and he jogs forward, searching for the source. He rounds a corner to see his very own bridgeboy huddled in a tight, pathetic ball on the floor, shivering and weeping.

“Kal!” He exclaims, running over, but Kaladin doesn’t seem to hear him. He kneels next to the Windrunner and puts a hand on his shoulder.

He’s not prepared for the way Kaladin flinches backward violently, body slamming hard into the wall behind him.

“Kal,” Adolin breathes, aghast, and Kaladin shudders horribly. 

What happened? How did Kaladin come to be like this, shivering and broken in an abandoned corridor? What caused this, and why is he alone? 

Adolin shakes off the questions, resolving to worry about the answers to them later, and tries to figure out how he can help Kaladin right now instead.

He has some experience with anxiety attacks; Renarin has them sometimes, though less often now that he’s older. But when they were younger, especially before his uncle was murdered and his father stopped drinking, Renarin would become overwhelmed often and mentally shut down. Adolin learned that his own panicked reactions never worked well; shaking his brother and shouting at him often made it worse, as did asking all kinds of questions.

Touch was also not always welcome, and Adolin curses when he realizes his first reaction to seeing Kaladin in distress today was to reach out to him and touch him. He should have known better. Hopefully he hasn’t made it worse.

This isn’t the same thing as what Adolin remembers Renarin experiencing, but it’s similar enough and Adolin doesn't have any other ideas, so he lowers himself to sit next to Kaladin, being sure to keep several inches between them, and he starts to talk, voice low and soothing.

Gallant is still top of his mind since he’s just come back from a visit, so he talks about the Ryshadium and how he’s doing, how Gallant struts around like he’s the top horse in the entire stable (which he kind of is), how his weaknesses are carrots and overly ripe truthberries. He talks about how much he misses Sureblood and how he hopes his horse is happy in whatever version of the Tranquiline Halls exists for horses. 

Kaladin’s violent shaking slowly subsides, turning into occasional small shivers. After several minutes he drops his hands from his ears, though he doesn’t raise his head yet or open his eyes, so Adolin keeps talking.

He rambles about Shallan, about Renarin, about fashion, even. And eventually, thankfully, his nonsensical chatter must do the trick, because the tension in Kaladin’s body releases little by little, until his arms rest loosely around his knees and his head tilts backward to lean against the stone wall.

Adolin trails off, looking at the other man, whose eyes are still closed, though it’s more relaxed than the desperate clenching of several minutes ago. His face is wet and shining, but he doesn’t try to hide it or wipe it away. Adolin wonders if it’s a lack of shame or a lack of energy. Maybe both. Though he has nothing to be ashamed about.

“You okay?” Adolin asks him softly.

Kaladin doesn’t answer, and they sit quietly for a minute, the Windrunner’s breathing calm.

“I'm not going to ask what caused this, but I want you to know that you can talk to me if you ever need to,” Adolin tells him gently. “I may be a talker, but I'm also a pretty good listener. And I won’t judge.”

“Of all the things I think you are, Adolin Kholin,” Kaladin says roughly, “judgemental has never been one of them.”

Adolin chuckles. “Good to know. I’d be interested to hear some of those other things, though,” he says playfully.

“Ridiculous, foppish, incorrigible, stubborn, privileged, spoiled,” Kaladin lists, and Adolin gets out a mildly offended “Hey!” before Kaladin continues. “Competitive, a brilliant swordsman, loyal, unerringly kind, a good son, a great friend.”

Adolin’s mouth snaps shut and he stares dumbly.

“You also smell stupidly good.”

Adolin gives a strange, choked laugh and Kaladin finally turns, opening bloodshot eyes to look at him. 

“Thank you, Adolin,” he says sincerely. “I… sometimes I don’t know when to ask for help, or how to. I appreciate you being here.”

“Always, Kaladin,” Adolin says in a whisper. He doesn’t trust his voice not to crack if he tries to speak any louder right now. 

After another quiet minute where he’s regained his composure, he clears his throat. 

“Ready to get out of here?” He asks, standing. 

Kaladin nods, clasping the hand Adolin offers him and pulling himself up as well. 

They walk through the dark corridor together, and just before they reach one of the more public thoroughfares Adolin stops and turns, Kaladin following suit.

“I meant it, Kal. I'm always here. If you feel something like this coming on again, you can come to me. My door is always open,” he says almost pleadingly.

Kaladin nods, reaching out to squeeze Adolin’s arm near the elbow. Something that’s been knotted tight inside Adolin since he saw Kaladin’s hunched figure eases at the touch. 

“I know. Thanks, Adolin.”

And then Kaladin turns and strides away, back toward the training grounds, and Adolin, worried for a whole host of reasons that revolve around his only bridgeboy, heads toward his and Shallan’s rooms, intent on planning a night out, just the three of them.

Chapter Text

The stew is… spicier, than Adolin remembers it being.

He scoops up another spoonful, slipping it into his mouth and letting the flavors burst across his tongue. It’s not bad, exactly, but it’s certainly far from Rock’s horneater recipe, the one Adolin remembers sharing with Bridge Four around a roaring fire, laughter and camaraderie spreading a blanket of warmth over the gathered group of men and women more than the heat from the fire itself.

It makes him think of the people no longer with them, the ones left behind, and his soul aches at what the war has taken from all of them, himself included. 

He thinks of the original members of Bridge Four, of getting to know them back on the Plains, of how so few of them survived to live in this cold, drowned world. He thinks of his brother, how he would smile so brightly with the first people to truly accept him as their peer, people who never wished to change him into something he wasn’t. 

He thinks of Kaladin, the way his eyes would sparkle, the reflection of the flames dancing in his deep brown irises. How he would sometimes just sit and observe, the sight of his friends, his family, warm and content around him bringing the softest, sweetest smile to his face. It never failed to stop Adolin in his tracks, the way Kaladin’s face gentled when he thought no one was watching. 

Adolin was watching, though, and he tucks the precious memory away again, deep within himself, where it belongs.

This stew, even with the added spice, reminds him of better times, happier times. It is both a fresh wound and a soothing balm in one steaming mouthful. 

“I apologize if the stew is not to your liking. I did not have much time to learn, and have replicated it as best I can,” Szeth says.

Adolin shakes his head and smiles at the Shin man. “No, it’s great. A little spicier than I expected, but I like it.”

Szeth smiles tentatively in return as Masha pats his arm. “You may blame Kaladin for that. I did always tell him he used too much pepper, but I’ve become accustomed to it now, much to my chagrin.”

Adolin grins at the idea of Kaladin attempting to make stew with what few ingredients he must have had on their trek across Shinovar, using pepper to mask the surely godawful taste. He can so clearly imagine the way the Windrunner’s hackles would raise as Szeth insulted the uncultured palate of godless stonewalkers.

He aches, wishing not for the first time that he could see Kaladin again, ask him about his journey, about the stew, about those last ten days, about all the days before and all the days since.

The stew, as it always seems to regardless of taste, lowers the barriers of those who consume it, and the two men trade stories of Kaladin as they remember him, Masha listening with rapt attention and poorly-concealed awe. Adolin is surprised by the fondness with which the ex-assassin speaks of the Windrunner, at least until the larger picture of Szeth’s chronicles becomes more clear. Kaladin simply won the man over, not by force, and not by submission, but just by being him. Stubborn and persistent, moody and argumentative and kind and self-sacrificing, caring even for those who would reject him time and time again. 

Szeth tells him that Kaladin once argued with him about utensils, of all things, and that makes Adolin laugh aloud, tears of mirth or possibly anguish clouding his eyes, or maybe a mixture of both.

As Masha clears the table Szeth tells him about how deeply Kaladin cared about what Szeth wanted, how Szeth felt. And how when Szeth admitted to Kaladin that he didn’t want to kill anymore, the Windrunner took that duty upon himself instead, despite his own recent struggles. 

Adolin feels the weight of Kaladin’s death press down upon him once again. For the world to lose such an incredible human being, one who brought so much light to the rest of them despite his own darkness, is the ultimate tragedy, and one that Adolin will never understand. Because if there is a God, how could they ever allow something like this?

A voice pops into Adolin’s head then, reminiscent of the way Maya does, to say hello.

Adolin! It’s been ages since I talked to you. At least two weeks!

Nightblood joins in on the storytelling, sharing their own journey of self-worth, because of course Kaladin helped them, too. Only Kaladin Stormblessed could help an ancient sword of immeasurable power realize that they too have an identity and a conscience, that they are allowed to want things and that they deserve to be happy like anyone else. 

I am not a thing, Nightblood says with quiet reverence. 

When Adolin has had as much reminiscing as he can stand he thanks his hosts for the meal and escapes to the privacy of the small bedroom Szeth and Masha prepared for him while he was away earlier, visiting both the site of Kaladin’s last moments and his final resting place. He washes, grateful to be clean again, and climbs into the small bed, pulling the hand-woven quilt up over his body. 

A shaky sigh escapes his lips as he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, part of him attempting to dispel the image of Kaladin in his mind while another part of him clings to it desperately. He can see the man so clearly, standing tall and proud, long blue coat draped over shoulders strong enough to carry an entire world, smile absent from his lips but so obvious in the crinkle of his eyes as he looks at Adolin, tells him to storm off, calls him princeling.

Maya sends him a wave of comfort through their bond. 

I miss him so much, he thinks, throat tight.

I know, Maya replies gently.

Eventually, he sleeps. His dreams are plagued by shash glyphs and burning eyes. He wakes exhausted some hours later, the distant, rain-smothered sun low in the sky as the day nears its end, and has to take several moments to gather enough energy to face the dark night before him.

Dinner is a light meal: a loaf of Shin bread and butter, something Adolin tried in those first days after becoming a permanent refugee in Azir. It tastes better here, he thinks, the bread airy and light, butter salty and rich. Adolin feels warm as it settles in his stomach, as if it strengthens him for the lonely trek ahead. The long nights of his journey back to Azimir, but also the endless days after that, devoid of the people he loves most.

After they eat Adolin packs his meager belongings into his rucksack, and then Szeth leads him to the small common area of their quaint home. The Shin man carefully removes a bundle of blue cloth from the mantle above the hearth, gesturing for Adolin to sit.

“I should like to return his belongings to you, as one who was close to him in life,” Szeth says with solemnity.

He holds out the bundle toward Adolin, who takes it and lets it unravel in his hands. It’s Kaladin’s coat, that familiar Kholin blue, with the Tower and the Crown embroidered onto the back, Bridge Four glyph displayed proudly on the shoulder. He stares, unable to speak, as Szeth pulls down another item, handing that to him as well. 

A pack. Kaladin’s pack.

Adolin opens it, his heart in his throat, and slowly removes several items stashed inside.

Some extra pairs of clothes, a few pots and cooking utensils. Several spanreed notes. 

A dog-eared copy of The Way of Kings, and a folded piece of paper naming Kaladin the heir to Urithiru. Adolin feels a stab of pain at the sight of his father’s name glyph, thinks of how the rift between them will now remain unmended eternally. 

A child’s toy block Adolin recognizes as Oroden’s. Some slivers of wood, clearly pieces of a broken whole. At his questioning look Szeth tells him it was Kaladin’s flute, to which the Wind had answered. 

The last thing he finds in the pack is a single silver coin.

Adolin’s coin. 

He struggles, then, to keep the emotions at bay. They threaten to overwhelm him, a tidal wave of mourning dragging him out to sea, pulling him under into the sorrowful, suffocating darkness. 

He remembers giving this coin to Kaladin when they parted so long ago, before Adolin went to stand trial in Lasting Integrity, before Kaladin was once again forced to endure unthinkable torment and suffering. And Adolin hadn’t been there for him, had only left him this useless little medallion, which Kaladin cared enough about to bring with him on what he believed might be his final journey. 

Masha and Szeth are gracious, allowing Adolin time to regather his composure, before Szeth tells him about two final items, which he holds protectively in his lap. 

The first is a childhood keepsake of Szeth’s, one Kaladin somehow came into possession of during their trip. The shape is hard to distinguish but Szeth tells him confidently that it’s a sheep. 

The second item is a carved wooden horse, which Adolin does recognize.

“I would like to keep these. One to remind me of my own journey, and the other to remember the man who saved me.”

Adolin agrees. He thinks Kaladin would have wanted Szeth to keep the horse. He will give the rest of the possessions to Kaladin’s parents (if he ever sees them again), and the documents to his cousin, but he will keep the jacket and the coin.

He stands, thanking the couple for their hospitality as they walk him to the door. He wishes them well and steps outside, then pulls on Kaladin’s coat instead of his own, slipping the small silver coin into a pocket close to his heart. 

And then, with the Windrunner’s presence cloaking him, protecting him even in death as the man had always done in life, Adolin steps into the rain and begins the long journey home.

Chapter Text

Adolin is already on his second drink by the time Kaladin arrives, looking harried and windswept. The Windrunner’s gaze darts around the bar, clearly searching for Adolin, until he finally locates him lounging at a table near the back of the room. 

He’s almost thirty minutes late, but Adolin’s not upset about it. He’s in a good mood tonight, and several people have stopped by his table to say hello, to ask after his wife, to commiserate about the state of the world in general, so he’s been far from bored. 

He also understands that Kaladin has responsibilities, a lot more of them than he probably should. Everyone always manages to forget how young the Windrunner still is; he’s practically just a kid, regardless of how life has refused to treat him like one for a long time now. 

Adolin watches as Kaladin makes his way toward him, the man’s tall figure awkwardly weaving through the crowded room until he finally reaches their table, sliding into the booth with a heavy sigh.

“Sorry,” he says, and he does actually look apologetic, eyebrows scrunched together in a guilty, hang-dog expression that makes Adolin immediately want to cheer him up.

“Oh, it’s fine, I’ve been people-watching. Always a good time,” Adolin says with a grin.

Kaladin looks out at the crowd, eyes passing over them distractedly, though Adolin knows he’s not really seeing them. 

“Still,” the Windrunner says with another sigh. “I’m sorry, I should have kept better track of the time.”

Adolin shrugs. “Seriously, don't worry about it, bridgeboy.” 

He spots the barkeeper, Halder, and catches his eye, signaling for two more drinks. The man gives him a wave of understanding.

“Training ran late, I take it?” Adolin asks, turning back to Kaladin. He offers the man a sip of his drink but Kaladin declines with a shake of the head.  

“Yeah, one of the new kids stuck himself to the side of a chasm and was afraid to let the lashing go. Took a while to talk him down.”

Adolin laughs and Kaladin gives him a wry grin. 

“Never a dull moment with the Windrunners, eh?” Adolin asks, and Kaladin shakes his head. 

“You’re telling me.” 

Halder drops off their beverages, greeting Kaladin with a certain deference that he doesn’t even use when speaking to Adolin, which leaves Kaladin feeling extremely uncomfortable and Adolin highly amused. 

Halder leaves after a few hilariously awkward minutes and Kal takes a grateful swallow of his drink.

“Didn’t by chance stop to look in a mirror on your way here, did you?” Adolin asks him, eyeing his wild dark locks, tangled from hours presumably swooping through the air at speeds that, in Adolin’s opinion, at least, are definitely too fast to be considered safe.

“Ah, no, I came straight here,” Kaladin mumbles, reaching up with both hands to try to smooth his hair down into some semblance of order.

Adolin grins. “Just make sure you brush it before you shower; it’s a real nightmare trying to get tangles like that out after they get wet.”

“I don’t own a brush,” Kaladin says, rolling his eyes and apparently giving up on his hair as he grabs his glass off the table and takes another large sip.

“Comb, then,” Adolin amends.

“I don’t own one of those, either,” Kaladin says absently, looking out over the crowd again.

Adolin’s brows furrow in confusion. “Then what on Roshar do you use to brush your hair?”

Kaladin looks back at him, eyebrows raised. “My fingers?”

“Your– Kal! Your fingers?” Adolin asks, appalled. 

His fingers? 

“What?” Kaladin asks, defensive.

“That’s– that’s– I don’t even have words for what that is. It’s horrifying. Next you’ll tell me you don’t even wash it.”

“I wash it,” Kaladin says with a pout.

“Good! I hope you storming wash it, you insane man. Hair of that length needs to be conditioned at least three times a week. Please tell me you use conditioner.”

“...What’s conditioner?”

Adolin stares at him. 

“The stuff you use after shampoo?” he says slowly.

Kaladin just stares at him.

“Shampoo? Kaladin, please tell me you use shampoo,” Adolin says desperately.

“I use soap.”

Adolin closes his eyes.

“Soap,” he says weakly. “The same soap you use on your body.”

He opens his eyes to just in time to see Kaladin shrug. “Yes. What other soap would I use?”

“What other– Kal! Shampoo! And conditioner! Oh, almighty,” Adolin moans, rubbing his hands over his face in despair.

Kaladin rolls his eyes. 

“I don’t know why you’re being so dramatic, my hair is just fine. It hasn’t fallen out yet,” Kaladin says dismissively. 

Adolin makes a pained sound.

“Storms, Adolin, who even cares about these things? Besides you, obviously.”

“Everyone, Kal! You can’t just use soap—“ Adolin cuts off at the glower Kaladin sends his way.  

“Can we just let it go? Let’s talk about something else,” Kaladin says, sounding very close to annoyed about the whole thing. 

…And maybe Adolin has managed to yet again put his damned foot in his mouth. Sure, a privileged light-eyed member of the second dahn gets to use things like shampoo and conditioner and cologne every day, but someone like Kaladin? Not only a darkeyes, but a soldier? A slave? 

“Okay,” Adolin says. “Okay, yeah, sure. Something else.” 

And then the most glorious idea pops into his head, and the outline of a plan starts to come together.

He smiles and tries to push down the rising excitement. 

“Hey, Kal, you’re off duty tomorrow, right?”

_____

Kaladin makes sure to finger-comb his hair thoroughly before Adolin arrives to drag him out of his rooms the next day to lunch. The princeling’s eyes flick upwards just once when Kaladin opens the door, but he doesn’t say anything so Kaladin assumes the man’s delicate hair sensibilities haven’t been offended too much. 

He's glad– he doesn’t know if he could handle another lecture about hair products. He knew Adolin was passionate about all things fashion, but he had no idea that hair was apparently included in that category.

Adolin takes him down to a restaurant in the Breakaway Market, one of the larger ones that has an actual room inset into the stone walls instead of just covered awnings. They serve mostly food from Northern Alethkar and Herdaz, which is oddly thoughtful of Adolin, if the gesture was in fact intentional. 

They enjoy themselves immensely, conversation flowing easily, subject matter relaxed and fun, and Kaladin leaves the restaurant feeling lighter than he has in weeks. It’s not often they get a day off duties together. If he’s being honest, Kaladin could stand to take a few more days off, but there’s just been so much to do lately that he always ends up feeling guilty when he does, so he just resolves to make the ones he does actually take count.

Adolin eventually leads him through the Market to an area with less tents and stalls and more clothing shops that look like they cater mostly to the higher dahns. 

“Where are you taking me?” Kaladin asks suspiciously as they pass a shoe store with a pair of boots on display that look like they probably cost more than his parents’ entire house back in Hearthstone. 

“You’ll see,” Adolin says with a secretive smile. He glances at Kaladin and laughs at the skeptical look on his face. 

“Oh come on, don’t be like that. This is for your own good,” Adolin says. 

“What, exactly, is for my own good?”

Adolin doesn’t answer, but just a few steps later he halts, gesturing to the bright shop they’ve stopped directly in front of. 

“Ta da,” he says with a grin. 

“Adolin, no,” Kaladin says, unamused.

“Come on, please?” Adolin wheedles, hands clasped together in front of his chest in supplication. 

“Why? Why is this so important to you?” Kaladin asks him, mild curiosity bleeding through his irritation at the other man’s insistence.

Adolin drops his hands to his sides and shrugs. “I just think it’s important to take care of yourself. And you, you know, could use a little help in that regard. No offense.”

“Offense very much taken,” Kaladin grumbles. 

“I mean, it’s not your fault. You didn’t exactly have much opportunity for self-care in the past.” 

Adolin‘s eyes are sad as he says this and Kaladin looks away, hating the idea of being pitied. 

“You have the opportunity now, though, and I’d love to be able to give you that.”

Kaladin looks back at the sincerity in his voice. Adolin grins. 

“Plus, I know all the best people. You won’t even recognize yourself after we’re done.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Kaladin sighs, and knows he’s already given in. “Fine, let’s just get it over with.”

Adolin’s eyes light up like Kaladin’s just presented him with the best gift Adolin’s ever gotten. He bounces on his toes and literally claps his hands in excitement before he grabs Kaladin by the arm, hauling him inside. 

_____

Adolin does all the talking, telling his stylist to give Kaladin the full royal treatment, and Kaladin rolls his eyes at the idea that there is even such a thing as a royal hair treatment. 

He follows the hair stylist – Ledrant is the name the darkeyed man gives him when he asks – to the back of the shop where there are several waist-level basins with chairs sat in front of them. Ledrant has him sit in one and lean his head back, and then proceeds to wash his hair for him. 

It’s strange at first, someone else touching him so intimately like it’s nothing, like it’s normal. The man is gentle and thorough, strong fingers massaging the hair soap – shampoo, Adolin called it – into his scalp, the stuff sudsing up enough that it makes Kaladin’s head feel heavy with it, and by the time he’s rinsing it out and into the basin below Kaladin’s starting to appreciate how nice the sensation feels.

He assumes he’ll sit up once all of the shampoo is gone, but apparently he forgot about the conditioner. 

The conditioning experience is just as enjoyable as the shampoo, though smoother, somehow, like it makes the stylist’s hands slide through his hair and across the skin of his scalp effortlessly. 

After that’s all rinsed out too, the stylist has him sit up, then dries his hair with a towel softer than anything Kaladin’s ever felt before in his entire life. He reaches up to do it himself but Adolin glares at him from where he’s watching in front of the next basin over, and Kaladin relents, dropping his hands to his lap and grudgingly letting Ledrant do all the work. 

They move to a line of chairs closer to the front of the shop that each sit in front of their own glass mirror. Kaladin is guided to one near the middle of the row and he sits, staring at his reflection, hair falling in damp waves around his shoulders.

Kaladin has to admit that it does smell nice. Woodsy and clean with a hint of mint. Kaladin knows this smell, though it takes him a moment to place it. 

Kaladin breathes in this very scent when he spars with Adolin, when the other man gets in close, when Adolin’s hair brushes across his face, damp with sweat, especially on those rare instances they end up grappling hand to hand. 

“Are we getting a cut today?” Ledrant asks, reaching out to comb dexterous fingers through Kaladin’s dark tresses. 

“No,” Kaladin says at the same time that Adolin answers, “A trim.”

Kaladin turns to look at him. He followed them over from the basins and now stands just a few feet behind the stylist. 

“I don’t want to cut my hair, Adolin,” Kaladin says to him firmly. 

“You don’t have to, Kal, I won’t make you if you really don’t want to. But a trim is just a little bit off the bottom,” he holds up a thumb and forefinger less than an inch apart, “just to get the dead ends off. It keeps the hair healthy, actually makes it grow faster.”

Kaladin eyes him, looking for the deception, but Adolin’s gaze is nothing but earnest, so he nods and turns back around, facing the mirror again. He can see Adolin in the reflection grinning at him as he confirms with the stylist. 

“Just a trim, please.”

So Kaladin gets his hair trimmed. It’s not too much, less than an inch, like Adolin promised, and it does make his hair look less scraggly, which he supposes is nice. 

By the time the stylist is finished wielding his petite yet wickedly sharp scissors against Kaladin’s waves, his hair is almost dry. 

“Are we done?” Kaladin asks, moving to stand. 

“No, just one more thing, please. I wanted to try something…” Adolin says, trailing off and looking eager. 

The princeling then proceeds to describe to Ledrant different ways to style Kaladin’s hair. 

Kaladin opens his mouth to protest but at that moment makes eye contact with Adolin in the mirror, and the man looks so happy. So Kaladin sighs instead, then relaxes back into the chair again, accepting his fate. 

Adolin observes closely as Ledrant pulls Kaladin’s hair into a top knot, similar to how Kaladin has sometimes worn it in the past but much cleaner.

“Good for formal occasions,” the stylist says approvingly, and Adolin nods, one arm crossed over his chest with the opposite hand caressing his chin in thought. 

“Yes, I like that. Now try the tail.”

And so Ledrant takes out the small bun and gathers all of Kaladin’s hair into one hand while smoothing it down with a brush in the other, pulling it into a tail at the back of Kaladin’s head with a tight elastic. 

“Ooh, I like that too, very utilitarian,” Adolin says. 

“Shall we leave it here, then?” The stylist asks, and Adolin starts to nod before he hesitates. 

“Brightlord?”

Adolin shoots a glance at Kaladin in the mirror before looking away again just as quickly. 

“…Can we possibly… try a braid?” Adolin asks, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant. 

“Of course, Brightlord,” Ledrant says, and he removes the elastic from Kaladin’s hair again. 

Kaladin, curious, watches Adolin in the reflection of the glass as the stylist starts tugging on small sections of his hair, weaving it into something Kaladin’s sure is overly intricate and wholly unnecessary. But he keeps his mouth shut because for some reason this is important to Adolin, this braid especially, and it’s not like he’s being tortured or mistreated, exactly the opposite, in fact. 

Adolin suddenly lifts a hand, reaching out toward where Ledrant has his fingers tangled in Kaladin’s half-styled hair. 

“What if…” he says and then he steps up next to the other man, and Kaladin feels another hand in his hair now, gently pulling and twisting. 

“Very good, Brightlord,” Ledrant says, and Adolin flashes a smile before stepping away again. 

“Sorry, I’ll let you…”

Ledrant smiles indulgently and resumes his work. 

Not two minutes later Adolin stops him again. 

“Can we try… if we put this piece here…”

And Kaladin watches, eyebrows raised, as Adolin steps forward again. 

“Of course, Brightlord. That’s a very nice variation.”

“Thanks, it’s…” he trails off, eyes meeting Kaladin’s again before they dart away. “Sorry, I don’t mean to keep interrupting,” he says with a sheepish grin. 

“Of course not, Brightlord. I appreciate your vision.”

Kaladin eyes are glued to Adolin now, and he can see the agitation the other man is trying to suppress. The way his hands twitch toward Kaladin’s hair, how he chews on his bottom lip to keep from speaking out again. 

“What is it, Adolin?” Kaladin asks suddenly, and the hands in his hair still as Adolin’s eyes find Kaladin in the mirror. 

“I’m sorry, it’s nothing,” he says, an actual flush coloring his cheeks. 

“It’s not nothing. Something is obviously bothering you. What is it?”

Adolin looks at him, then at Ledrant, who turns to look back at the prince, hands still holding Kaladin’s hair in place. 

“Brightlord?”

“Can I…?” Adolin finally asks, gesturing to Kal’s hair. 

“Of course, Brightlord,” the stylist says, and he releases his grip completely, Kaladin’s hair coming loose, falling in soft waves around his face. 

“Sorry,” Adolin says, though he does step forward, taking the stylist’s place as the man moves off to the side. 

“It’s no problem at all, Brightlord,” Ledrant says with a kind smile. 

And then Adolin’s hands are in Kaladin’s hair, threading through the strands, getting a feel for the length and texture. 

“Is this okay?” He asks Kaladin, eyes locked onto Kaladin’s in the mirror. 

“Yes,” Kaladin says simply. 

Adolin gives him a brilliant smile, his embarrassed flush fading, and then he goes to work. 

His hands are more gentle than Ledrant’s – not that the other man’s were rough, just that Adolin’s touch is softer, somehow – and nearly as skilled, pulling and tugging Kaladin’s hair into the specific weave he must be envisioning. It’s soothing to Kaladin in a way that it hadn’t been earlier, maybe because now this is the touch of someone he knows and trusts, and he closes his eyes, basking in the uncommon feeling of someone caring for him in such a gentle, physical way. 

“Done,” Adolin says softly, and Kaladin opens his eyes, surprised at how easily he lost track of time while Adolin worked.

He examines himself in the mirror, turning his head to try to see the finished product. Ledrant steps up and offers him a handheld mirror, which he uses to see the back of his head. 

Every single strand of his hair including his bangs is pulled into a seemingly simple plait right down the center of his head. There are several smaller braids twisted into the main plait, weaving in and out of the larger strands as they all travel down to the base of his skull. 

The whole thing doesn’t look overly feminine like some of the more intricate styles he’s seen the lighteyed women in high society wear, though there does look to be very many strands involved, and though the look is simple he knows it’s complicated enough that he has very little hope of ever replicating it. 

He’s not used to his face being so exposed, and his brands stand out starkly against his skin, bold and dark in the middle of his forehead. But everyone in the tower knows who he is by this point, what he is, so there’s nothing to protect except his own modesty. 

It's also very practical. Tied back as it is his hair won’t get in his eyes when he’s trying to fight, won’t tangle when he flies, won’t get caught in clothing and can’t be used as a weapon against him by an enemy. 

“I like it,” he says, and Adolin’s face, almost nervous as he awaited Kaladin’s judgement, lights up. “It’s good for fighting. Though I doubt you’ll be stopping by before every battle to braid my hair.” He gives Adolin a wry smile. 

Adolin chuckles. “Probably not, no. But I can teach you.”

“Yeah?” Kaladin asks, reaching back to trace the braided strands down the back of his head.  

“Mmhmm. I’d actually really enjoy that, if you’ll let me,” he says. And then, softer: “My mother taught me this braid when I was younger and I kept my hair longer.”

Kal finds it surprisingly hard to speak, so he just nods, and Adolin smiles before turning to Ledrant. 

“Thank you so much for today,” he says, reaching out to clasp the man’s hand. “I appreciate it very much.”

“Of course, Brightlord. Any time at all, and I mean that.”

Kaladin stands, also shaking Ledrant’s hand and thanking him, before he and Adolin leave the shop. 

Kaladin has no idea how much time has passed. It could have been only an hour or several, but he’s surprisingly unbothered by it. He feels calm, and his mind is quiet as they leave the Market behind and make their way toward the Kholin wing of the Tower. 

“I’m meeting Shallan for dinner in about an hour. Will you come eat with us?” Adolin asks him, a happy bounce in his step that makes something warm stir inside Kaladin. Affection, maybe. Contentedness. 

“You don’t think you should maybe have some time alone with your wife after spending your entire day off with me?” Kaladin asks him with a raised brow. Though he understands the invitation, he thinks. It’s been a really nice day, and he’s not quite ready to separate just yet, either. 

“On the contrary,” Adolin says, grinning. “I feel like she’ll want to hear all about your hair appointment straight from the source. And I know she’ll want to see the final product. Plus, you put up with my whims all afternoon. Let me treat you to a meal.”

“Another meal, you mean.”

“Yes,” Adolin says, undeterred. 

Kaladin can’t find it in himself to argue, and he doesn’t really want to anyway. Plus, food does sound good. Lunch feels like it happened ages ago. 

“Alright,” Kaladin says, and Adolin’s answering grin is infectious. 

I’m having a very hard time saying no to this man lately, Kaladin thinks, trying to hide his own smile behind an over dramatic eye roll. 

And then Adolin asks him another question, and this time Kaladin has no trouble at all telling him no. 

“So, does this mean you’ll let me take you to my tailor next time?“

Chapter Text

Adolin Kholin is not afraid of heights.

It’s an argument he’s had with what seems like every single person he’s ever met since he eagerly climbed the stairs to the ramparts of Kholinar Palace when he was four years old. 

It’s a vivid memory, despite his young age. He recalls wandering away from his distracted nanny (she was young and in love with the stable hand, if he remembers correctly, and spent as much time mooning out the playroom window as babysitting Adolin), discovering a winding tower stairwell and deciding with certainty that the only sensible course of action would be to climb to the top and see the world from the sky. 

He did climb, and he did see the world from the sky, or at least most of the city from the highest man-made structure for hundreds of miles around. While the view was indeed spectacular, he learned something else that day as well: that being high enough to see the world also means that the ground is very far away. 

When he curiously leaned over the ramparts and looked down at the streets below, he saw everything in miniature – people the size of ants, horses smaller than the ones he kept in a basket by the end of his bed, palaquins no bigger than the medals on his father’s blue coat. 

He didn’t stay atop the tower long after that.

It has always defied his comprehension that people can’t seem to understand the difference between what is an irrational phobia and what is practical, understandable, completely logical caution. 

Take Kaladin Stormblessed for example. 

The man stands on the sands of the Windrunner training grounds with his arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows raised in skepticism, as Adolin explains very logically why he doesn’t want to enjoy his lunch on the balcony. 

“So let me get this straight,” Kaladin says doubtfully. His hair is a windswept mess, wild and tangled from a morning spent airborne with the newest batch of squires, and Adolin’s fingers flex involuntarily with the desperate need to comb it or pull it back into a tail or something. The other man doesn’t even seem to notice the abomination, too busy passing judgement on the concept of someone having a normal amount of self-preservation.

“You’re not afraid of heights. But when you are somewhere… high…” His eyebrows lift even further. “You’re afraid.”

"Yes! Exactly!” Adolin exclaims, pointing at him. “Thank you! I don’t get why that’s so hard to understand. I’m not afraid of heights, I’m just a reasonable amount of anxious to be somewhere higher than is sensible or safe. It’s completely normal.”

“It’s completely normal to be too afraid to eat lunch on your own balcony? Normal to refuse to look out a window above the twentieth floor of the tower?”

“Oh come– it’s an intimidating view, bridgeboy! All sheer cliffs and thousand-foot drops. It can be a little overwhelming, that’s all. And I’m not afraid to eat lunch out on the ninety-fourth floor balcony… I’m just not insane.”

Kaladin’s silence speaks volumes.

“Hey, I fought on the Plains. Crossed those damned bridges. Dueled on plateaus and even almost fell into a chasm once or twice. Explain that if I’m so afraid of heights, as you say,” Adolin says defensively, putting his hands on his hips. 

“Heat of battle, doesn’t count.”

“Wha— it most certainly does count!”

“Prove it,” Kaladin says suddenly. 

Adolin blinks. 

“What?”

“Prove you’re not afraid of heights. Come fly with me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on, princeling. I won’t drop you.”

“If you drop me, I’ll drag you down with me.”

Kaladin grins. “Deal.”

Adolin feels a spike of panic and attempts to backpedal. 

“Wait, no, that’s not–“

Kaladin steps right up to him, eyes shining with mischief. “Better hold on tight.”

“Kal, wait–“

The Windrunner touches his shoulder and Adolin nearly swallows his tongue as he lifts off into the air like an arrow shot out of a Parshendi bow.

The only thing that saves him from screaming is how he’s physically unable to catch his breath. He feels like he’s falling into the sky, stomach swooping sickeningly and heart in his throat, air trapped in his lungs with no escape as he plummets into the blue abyss. 

A dark figure comes into view next to him, also falling up. Kaladin storming Stormblessed himself, grinning at Adolin, hair whipping in long strands around his face as he reaches over to grab Adolin by the arm and reel him in.

Their ascent slows gradually until Adolin is finally able to suck in a huge lungful of air, then another, and then he punches Kaladin in the arm with the hand not currently clenched white-knuckled in the Windrunner’s coat. 

“You– ass!” Adolin shouts, hitting him again. Kaladin grins, allowing his body to drift with the blow so that most of the effect is lost. It causes him to float slightly away and Adolin panics, snatching Kaladin’s lapel, pulling the other man close again with both hands wound tight in fabric.

“Sorry,” Kaladin says, with an amused little huff. “I didn’t mean to lash you that quickly.”

“Liar,” Adolin pants, glaring. Like Kaladin can’t control his lashings better than anyone in this tower. Storming man.

Kaladin just shrugs. Adolin’s grip on his jacket tightens as the wind gusts, twisting through his hair and flipping the tails of his custom military jacket. He swallows at the feel of empty air beneath his feet, wonders how high above the training grounds Kaladin took them. Would he even be able to make out details, or would it just be one sand-colored blur at the base of the tower with tiny dots instead of soldiers? 

He refuses to look down to find out.

“Hey.”

Kaladin no longer sounds amused; his voice has lost the teasing tone of before and now sounds concerned.

Adolin focuses on him instead of the surely considerable distance between himself and the ground far below.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” Kaladin says guiltily.

“No, it’s…” Adolin trails off, and Kaladin frowns, expression darkening.

“It’s not alright,” he says, clearly upset with himself. 

Adolin shakes his head. “It was a joke, It’s fine.”

His voice comes out breathy, like when he first steps out into the winter cold and the air is thin and brittle in his lungs. He clears his throat, embarrassed.  

“It was a dick move, Adolin, I’m sorry,” Kaladin says earnestly. His dark eyes take in Adolin’s agitated state, lingering on the hands still clutched in his coat. “Come on, I’ll take you back. Just hold on to me, and look out, not down, okay?” 

He reaches out to touch Adolin’s shoulder again, presumably to lash them back down to earth.

“No, wait,” Adolin says, releasing one hand from Kaladin’s coat to grab the man’s wrist before it makes contact. 

Kaladin’s brows furrow but he stays silent, waiting for Adolin’s next move.

Kaladin’s right, it was kind of a shitty thing to do, but Adolin did also argue very vehemently that he wasn’t any more afraid of heights than anyone else, so how was Kaladin, a certified maniac that has zero sense of self-preservation whatsoever, supposed to know that Adolin would panic, especially when flying around in the sky is practically commonplace these days?

Adolin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, gathering his courage. Then, when he opens them again, he looks out, not down.

Out at the jagged mountains thrusting violently into the heavens as far as the eye can see, tops covered in pure white snow, blinding in the midday sun. At the line of wispy clouds dusting the endless expanse of azure sky, playful and teasing and constantly changing. At the far-off glaciers that melt into trickling streams between peaks, dark lines wending their way through the treacherous landscape, meeting and merging and pooling in turquoise lakes nestled deep within the range.

“It’s breathtaking,” Adolin says softly, awed. It’s a struggle to tear his gaze away from the other-worldly view, and when he finally looks back to the Windrunner he finds Kaladin already watching him, expression unreadable.

“Can we get closer?” Adolin asks.

Kaladin’s expression morphs into one of confusion. “To the mountains?”

“Yes.”

Kaladin doesn't answer, just positions himself next to Adolin with an arm looped securely around his waist, sides pressed tightly together, and then they start gliding at a sedate pace toward the nearest snow-covered peak. 

Adolin is grateful for the reduced speed; not only does it allow him to breathe properly, but it also lets him take in the shifting view of rocky ravines and immense boulders, steep mountainsides and frosted ivory valleys. Though he still refuses to look straight down, the panic has waned, and he finds himself comfortable in the knowledge that Kaladin would never actually let anything happen to him. There’s no better person to have at his back, after all, even if this time the person in question is the one who literally cast him off into the sky to begin with.

It’s less cold than he would have expected at this altitude, but the reason for the warmth becomes apparent when they land with the crunch of powder-soft snow under booted feet and the strange bubble that protected them as they flew dissipates. Kaladin explained it once, something about sculpting the air, lessening shear and regulating temperature, among other things, but Adolin didn’t quite grasp the practical implications until this moment, not until he’s actually experienced the surge of gravitation himself.

Kaladin releases his grip on Adolin’s waist and Adolin shivers as freezing air rushes suddenly to fill the space between their bodies. He is severely underdressed for a mountain summit, but the cold is shoved to the back of his mind as he turns around and sees Urithiru for the first time in its entirety.

The tower city is glorious. The structure is massive to the point of incomprehensibility, made of colossal carved pieces of dark stone, panes of glittering glass that Adolin knows are enormous in size looking miniscule from their current vantage point. They must be miles away now and Urithiru still dominates their view. 

Kaladin steps up next to him.

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

“It’s incredible,” Adolin says. 

He takes it all in for another minute before he turns away from the tower, and the expression he finds on Kaladin’s face is nearly as stunning, more peaceful and free than Adolin’s ever seen him. 

He’s observed how the Windrunner is always in better spirits after flying, but he’s never gotten to experience the change firsthand. Of course, he’s seen him fly during battles, Kaladin swooping through the air doing his typical death-defying acrobatics, but that’s not the same; those incidents don’t chaperone peace. 

This, though, must be the change that happens when Kaladin flies for the joy of it. What makes that broody, dour frown turn into something light, tranquil, content. Something almost resembling happiness.

“You love this,” Adolin says. It’s not quite an epiphany, more an acknowledgement of things known before but now seen and understood. 

Kaladin shoots him a questioning look before gazing out at the tower again. “What, dragging my friends to isolated peaks without proper winter attire?”

It startles a laugh out of Adolin.

“Oh, so you do this often?”

Kaladin rolls his eyes, lips tilting up at the corners.

Adolin throws an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close, the right side of his body warming as it presses against the Windrunner’s. 

“Flying, you chull. You love flying,” Adolin says with a smile of his own. 

“Yeah,” Kaladin says softly. “I do.”

“It’s not all bad, I guess,” Adolin admits. “This part is pretty cool. Getting to see things like this.”

“It’s my favorite part,” Kaladin says. “Looking out, seeing everything from up high, how the world spreads out around you. It puts things into perspective.”

“I could do without that part, actually. The seeing things from up high.”

Kaladin doesn’t respond right away but Adolin can feel that the other man wants to say something, so he waits him out even as his fingers and toes start to go numb with the cold. 

“It’s okay, you know,” he says finally, voice kind and free of judgement. “If you're afraid of heights. It’s not something you need to be ashamed of.”

Adolin shrugs nonchalantly, even as he feels his face flush.

”Yeah, I know. I’m pretty sure most people don’t like being very high up, it’s unsettling.”

He chews on his lip before he takes a steadying breath and continues.

“...I’m also aware that it’s a little bit more than that for me,” he says. “I just… don’t like thinking about it. About the fall. The idea that there’s nothing you can do, that the last seconds of your life would just be terror and fear and then–” he slaps his free hand on his thigh, thwack.

“How do you do it every day?” He asks, breath puffing in a cloud in front of him, and Kaladin shrugs, shoulders lifting and settling under Adolin’s arm.

“It’s not like that for me. For me, being in the air is like… freedom.”

Adolin turns to face him fully, arm slipping off the other man’s shoulders.

“How so?” He asks, curious. He watches as Kaladin considers, trying to find the right words.

“It’s like… Nothing can stop me up there, you know? All of my problems just stay behind, on the ground. Giving up the sky because I fear the fall would be like… not loving someone because I’m afraid they might leave. Maybe they will. Maybe one day they’ll decide they’ve had enough of me, but the experience of loving them would still be worth it. 

“Maybe one day I lose the ability to fly, or I accidentally run out of Stormlight and fall to my death. But I wouldn’t give up the sky even if I knew that would be my ending. It’s part of me.”

Kaladin gives him a rueful little smile.

“Of course, just because I don’t mind the idea of falling to my death doesn’t mean I should have mocked you about it. I’m sorry for earlier. I was wrong to make fun of you, and to lash you the way I did.”

Adolin shrugs again. “I forgive you. It sucked, but in the end I’m glad you did it, because I got to see this.” He gestures out over the landscape and the view of the tower before them. 

“You can see it any time you want. You just have to ask,” Kaladin says.

“As long as we skip the insane free fall into the sky, I might just take you up on that.”

A cold breeze ruffles his hair and Adolin shivers. Kaladin notices.

“Ready to go back?” He asks, holding out an arm, and Adolin nods, tucking back into his side.

“Yes, please.”

Kaladin lifts them off the mountaintop, their little bubble of sculpted air pleasantly warm and calm as they float gently back to Urithiru. He doesn’t take them to the training grounds, instead flying toward the side of the tower. Adolin’s about to ask where they’re going when he recognizes his own balcony.

Their toes touch the stone and Adolin can feel gravity return the moment Kaladin cancels his lashing. 

“Thanks for the ride,” he says, releasing his grip on the other man’s waist. He rubs his hands together, fingers still cold from the frigid air of the mountain top. 

There’s a small metal table with two cushioned chairs near the balcony railing, and though Adolin’s never used it he knows Shallan will sometimes come out here in the mornings to sketch the sunrise. He walks over to it and takes a seat. 

His heart pounds a little faster but he doesn’t think he’s afraid, not anymore. Not with Kaladin right here to catch him if he falls.

“You staying for lunch?”

Kaladin raises a brow. 

“On top of a mountain one time and you’re suddenly not afraid of heights anymore?” He asks, though there’s no real mockery in his tone, just playful curiosity and maybe a little disbelief.

Adolin shrugs, grinning. “Not when I have you around. Come on, I’ll send for some food.”

Kaladin smiles and joins him, and when they turn to take in the view beyond the railing, Adolin looks out, at their mountain, shining peacefully in the sun.