Chapter Text
part one
and what do you think you’d understand?
“Renarin, give those to me. You’ll just slow us down.” Kaladin slowed his pace, hand extended to take the packs.
“I can do it,” Renarin called, as he slowly lagged further behind. The two packs were large enough to dwarf his skinny frame, sliding off his shoulders as he tried to hide his panting. “You’re navigating.”
“Brightlord!” Kaladin sighed and turned around. “Give those to me. Now.”
Renarin stopped in his tracks. There was sweat beading on his forehead, beginning to soak through his shirt. “No,” he said softly. “I can do this.”
“Storms! Brightlord, give me one. ” The hilly terrain was rough enough on them. Loose rocks at every step, perilously narrow paths spiraling upwards. The sun beat down hard, and there was no luxury of rest. Exhaustionspren swarmed like carrion beasts. All of that was hard enough on someone as untrained as Renarin. The prince was pampered and had been spared most army training. Kaladin didn’t begrudge him that. He couldn’t help his epilepsy.
It was his chull-headed conviction on working himself to death. No matter how he argued, how he reasoned, Renarin refused to pace himself. He said he refused to be a burden, then burdened Kaladin with this.
Renarin lowered his gaze and let Kaladin take a single pack, though not without reluctance. He swung it over his shoulder and waited until Renarin started walking again. Best to let him set the pace.
“Brightlord,” he called.
“Yes, Captain?”
Kaladin winced. “Carrying that pack only tires you faster and slows your pace. We can’t afford to lose speed. Those armies are faster than us.” Faster than him. Kaladin alone could probably outpace them. “You aren’t helping.”
Renarin nodded his acknowledgment, and then did nothing. Kaladin sighed and kept walking.
There was hardly any grass to hide from their steps, just sharp rocks scattered along the ground and the path. Mountains rose up on all sides, making the landscape yet more uniform gray. The sun was still rising, reflecting on every surface.
Kaladin’s boots felt like they’d grown into his feet. He hadn’t taken them off since they’d left Urithiru. There had been little time to rest, to eat, to wash. One day melted into another, and he didn’t know how long they’d been walking. The only sense of time was a vague idea that a highstorm was coming. Every child knew that to be alone, without shelter, when a highstorm came meant death.
He’d survived a highstorm once, yes. Kaladin feared he wouldn’t again. Then there was Renarin— a Radiant too, yes, but Kaladin wouldn’t risk it. Only the Stormfather had saved him. Now, of course, the Stormfather was bonded to Dalinar…
If Dalinar lived.
He looked back to where Renarin was still struggling with the pack. His breathing was strained— Kaladin was aware of his own chest aching.
“Hand that to me before you pass out,” he said, turning. He took the strap in his hand.
Renarin refused.
“Brightlord,” Kaladin said, “you’re too exhausted.”
He tugged again, but Renarin still refused. Why did the prince have to be so storming stubborn? Kaladin stepped closer to wrest it away, and when Renarin shoved he shoved back.
“Just give it to me!” Renarin was still fighting, Damnation, wasting precious time on his pride. Kaladin shoved again, trying to end this.
There was a sickening crack. Renarin lay on the ground.
Kaladin dropped the pack and knelt by Renarin’s side, thoughts of injuries rushing through his head. Renarin pushed him aside, then stood. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out pieces of splintered wood.
His box.
“Broken,” he said. “It’s not going to work again.”
“I’m… I’m sorry, Renarin.”
“Firewood, I suppose.” There was no malice in his words, just a flatness that stung even more. The box was important, Kaladin knew. Navani had given it to him. It was years old. Kaladin had even been shown the marks where Renarin’s fingers had worn it down.
Renarin shoved it back into his pocket, as if it were truly no more than firewood. Kaladin took up the discarded pack, and started walking again.
Renarin was right. There was no time for sentiment.
He wasn’t sure how long they’d been walking for. He wasn’t sure how long they’d need to keep walking through the hills. They’d turn into Alethkar once they hit the base of the Windrunner River.
Syl liked that. He was starting to get sick of her jokes.
They’d cross through relatively friendly territory. It would probably be safe. Most of the battle would likely be in the west and the south, and the armies coming from the Shattered Plains were probably headed for Kholin lands.
Probably.
The real danger would be as they approached Hearthstone. They weren’t going back home. The town was gone.
But in the mountains, he’d found his parents. A refugee camp. Just a few dozen people when Kaladin had left, but likely far more now. A Desolation and a civil war, the Everstorm— refugees, just like Kaladin and Renarin, were fleeing from every corner.
And if the camp had still survived, if no disaster had destroyed it— then they only had to reach there, and they would be safe. It would take the better part of a month, perhaps seven or eight weeks, to reach the camp.
That was assuming the best, though. No injuries. No illnesses. No letting Renarin’s pride kill him. No army catching up to them. They were two Knights Radiant, and Renarin was a Kholin prince, heir to the princedom and Alethkar itself. With the civil war, they were valuable beyond any others to all those scrabbling for the throne, and even those that wore the Kholin uniform couldn’t be trusted.
The first attack had come from Kholin men.
Renarin kept up pace now, wiping sweat from his brow and running his fingers through his hair. He watched the ground, eyes heavily lidded to protect from the all-consuming light.
The summer had just started. They could expect it to last a few more weeks. Renarin and Kaladin’s skin was already growing more freckled.
“We’ll stop to eat soon,” Kaladin said. His hair, as he tossed it from his face, felt as if it might catch fire any instant.
“I’m not hungry,” Renarin said.
“Hungry or not, you need to eat. Rest.” Kaladin unstrapped their water pouch and tossed it to Renarin. The catch was clumsy, but he didn’t drop it.
“I’m not thirsty.” He tossed it back to Kaladin. “We need to save water.”
Was he trying to commit suicide? “What we don’t need is for you to overheat and faint from dehydration. Brightlord, I know the water’s warm and full of crem, but you need to drink.”
“You need it more than I do.”
“When’s the last time you drank? It was last night. You’ve been walking in the blazing sun, carrying packs too heavy for you. I can’t carry you too.”
Renarin paused, then took the water from Kaladin’s outstretched hand. His drink was shallow, but it was something. “You don’t need to call me ‘Brightlord’,” he said softly, handing it back.
“Why not? It’s what you are.”
“It’s only the two of us, Captain. What does my bloodline mean here?”
“It means protecting you is my duty.” Kaladin held back any comments on how Captain was equally meaningless when there was nobody for him to captain. “I’m just showing the proper respect.”
“You used to call me Renarin.”
Kaladin turned around. As he stood there, Renarin shone in sunlight.
“I thought, being Bridge Four, it meant… something.”
“You weren’t Bridge Four.” Kaladin lifted his hair, showing his brands. “You joined on a whim, Prince Renarin. We had no such luxury. Talk to me about what Bridge Four meant when you’ve had the hope beaten out of you. Talk to me when you’ve been enslaved and sent to your death.”
Kaladin turned, and kept walking, leaving red angerspren in his wake.
“Yes,” said Renarin, after a moment. “Yes, of course. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Kaladin grunted, and kept his eyes on the horizon.
~
Renarin ate slowly. They had very little food— sometimes they’d catch some crabs or cremlings, perhaps something larger, and there were just a few buds that could be cracked open for a cool fruit (or so Kaladin said— the stringy texture made Renarin gag, even as he forced it down). Beyond that, though, they lived off what Kaladin had brought with them.
Kaladin had thought to bring food when Urithiru fell. Renarin, in a blind panic, had grabbed a lamp and maps and clothes and blankets, but no food. Still, it hadn’t been much, and their journey was beginning to stretch into weeks. (Renarin marked the map, every night.) Soon the dried soulcast meat and fruits would be gone.
He didn’t need to eat much. He never had. It was easier to say he wasn’t hungry than to try to explain that there were so many things he simply could not bring himself to swallow, and precious few that were more than bearable.
Kaladin stared at him. He’d only picked at his own food, Renarin noted, barely doing more than tear a few strips of dried meat apart.
Renarin glanced down.
“Do you feel sick?” Kaladin asked.
“No,” Renarin said. Everything churned. It wasn’t an unusual sort of feeling sick, at least. His body felt stiff and numb, heavy and light-headed— that, he supposed, was because his box had broken.
Because he’d broken his box.
Because Kaladin had broken his box.
It was silly to be so upset, though. It was only an object. There was no point in being upset. Renarin didn’t need a puzzle box to play around with. A little fire would be of more use, and it was one less thing to carry around.
Navani had given it to him, but he didn’t want to think about Navani. He didn’t want to think of his family at all.
So, obviously, there was no reason Renarin should feel ill.
“You’re not eating or drinking well,” Kaladin said. “You’re overheated and overexerted. If you pass out, we’re dead. The best thing you can do to be useful is take care of yourself, Brightlord. Don’t worry too much about us running out of food or water. Taking the time to find more would hurt us less than if you get heat stroke.”
“I think you underestimate me,” Renarin said softly.
“I think you need to accept what you are, Brightlord. You can’t keep pace with me weighed down like that. You can’t live for days off one drink of water and two bites of food, even if you were living in a palace and not walking through the Unclaimed Hills during summer. It’s my job to protect you. I can’t do that unless you protect yourself.”
“Yes,” Renarin said, looking down once more. “It would be embarrassing if, in the course of defending me from bandits and armies, I were to die of starvation.”
“Damnation, you can’t afford pride. Dying because you were too stupid to eat and rest doesn’t make you strong. Stop making my job harder than it needs to be.”
Silently, Renarin forced another bite down. Kaladin took a shallow drink of water and then held the pouch out to Renarin. It was an order, not an offer.
The water was so hot Renarin feared it might scorch his throat, and tasted of crem. There was a metallic undertone as well, that could have been blood. Renarin didn’t care to guess whose. He drank long enough that Kaladin would be satisfied, and handed the pouch back.
“Careful,” Kaladin said. “Go too fast, and it’ll come back up.”
That wasn’t a thought Renarin needed.
“Sorry,” he said, trying to brush aside a gust of fluttering shamespren.
Fortunately, at that moment he was distracted by Kaladin removing his shirt, leaving the sun free to shine on his sweaty, bare skin.
After a lingering glance, he asked “Why?”
“I felt like I was going to cook to death.” He shoved his shirt in one of the packs, then rummaged until he found some thin twine. Slowly, Kaladin pulled his hair tightly back and tied it up.
“Oh.” Renarin gave a nod. He watched Kaladin stuffing a strip of dried fruit into his mouth, and tried not to let his eyes stray too far.
His eyes strayed. Renarin shoved a handful of food in his mouth, and his eyes strayed yet again to the curves of the muscles in Kaladin’s arms, his sharp collarbone, the slightest glimpse of his hips…
“You look hot.”
“What?” Renarin lifted a hand to his cheek. He could certainly feel heat there. “Oh. I am.”
“Watch out for that.” Kaladin’s hair was already coming loose. Thin curls were plastered to his forehead, fatter ones threatening to pull from the topknot and hang listlessly.
“Right. Don’t want me passing out and dying of heatstroke.” Renarin tore at his lunch. “Has that… helped?”
“Has what?”
“The…” Renarin gestured towards his own chest with a half-eaten lump of dried… something. He swallowed too fast to taste.
“Oh. No, not really.” Kaladin leaned back, stretching out.
“I’m sorry.” Renarin forced another bite down. “At least it’s cold at night.”
“Yes,” he said flatly, “It’s absolutely storming wonderful.”
That had to be sarcasm. Renarin hummed in agreement. The nights could get so cold it hurt to breathe, your skin freezing as the sweat evaporated. Even with the blankets and their old army coats, and even Kaladin grabbing Renarin for warmth at night… it was cold.
“I was,” he said, slowly, looking down and gnawing on a strip of meat, “just trying to look on the bright side.”
“I see.”
“Of course, at the moment I’d do a lot for a side that wasn’t bright.” Renarin gestured to the surrounding shine of the sun on the rocks.
Kaladin snorted at that. “All a matter of perspective, isn’t it?”
Renarin made a hum of agreement. They were nearly done eating, but would still rest a minute before setting out on their journey again. Anxiety ran through Renarin’s veins, telling him to run and never stop running.
He slowly chewed on a chunk of fruit. Disgusting. Renarin forced it down, then grabbed the water pouch to sip again. Get the memory of the texture washed away.
Unwashed, they smelled like a stable. It was quiet, at least, but Renarin would have gladly traded sitting there to being covered in an entire bottle of Adolin’s perfume. (Well, maybe if that came with a change in seasons. Or Adolin himself.)
No. Don’t think about Adolin. Never think about family. That left very little to think about. Renarin was left reciting poetry under his breath, or historical facts, or explaining a fabrial to himself. Even that didn’t work very often.
Renarin leaned forward and rocked himself. Not too obvious, keep it casual.
“Do you need some privacy?”
“What? No.” He looked up at Kaladin. He was still shirtless. “I’m fine.”
“Whatever you say.” Kaladin stood and stretched out, effortlessly bending down and holding his palms flat to the ground.
Renarin nodded along, watching Kaladin. Almighty, his head hurt. His hands ached to move, everything in Renarin screaming at him.
He sat perfectly still, gnawing on his food. Kaladin stretched his neck out, and Renarin winced at the crack. The food was gone. Renarin gnawed for a moment on his hand, then held it still in his lap when Kaladin looked again.
“You ready?” he asked, shouldering a pack.
“Whenever you say, Captain.” Renarin stood.
Kaladin sighed, loudly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and was ignored.
~
Renarin spread a blanket out while Kaladin pulled his boots off and his shirt on.
The moons offered little light this time of year, but a small fire and a handful of spheres were enough to see by. The cold was still refreshing, though soon it would grow bitter.
He lay on the ground, looking up at the stars. They were beautiful. Yet now, in a way he’d never been upon the Shattered Plains, Renarin was aware that this was not quite the sky of Kholinar.
It was subtle, like the way the night changed with the seasons, but suddenly a place in Renarin ached with the thought that he might never see the sky over Kholinar again. And this sky, too, the sky of the Shattered Plains— he would likely never see it again. The places Renarin had known as home were lost to him.
Kholinar. The thought of it made Renarin’s throat run dry. The palace had been destroyed. His room, the gardens and halls where he’d played, everything Renarin had known in his childhood— gone. The sky there would be all that remained.
Would he ever see that sky again? If the world lived long enough, if Renarin lived long enough, would he be brave enough to go to Kholinar?
If he did, it wouldn’t be the Kholinar that Renarin had called home.
Renarin spared a glance for Kaladin, glaring at a hole in his sock. He’d lost his home too. Hearthstone was gone. He’d seen the wreckage.
They would find a home. At his parents’ camp, or onwards. Somehow, they would put their worlds back together again.
They would find their families. They would find Bridge Four.
Even his faith seemed hollow.
The world was burning around them, and Renarin knew he and Kaladin were the ones charged to put out the flames, and save everything they could. No matter how often Kaladin said they were headed for safety, Renarin knew they would end up fighting. He didn’t fear battles.
But just for a moment, alone in the mountains, lost and surrounded by enemies, and utterly useless— the only thing Renarin wanted to save was himself. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be safe, with his family— his father, Adolin, Aunt Navani, Jasnah. He’d always been too busy to mourn her.
Who else would Renarin need to mourn?
Don’t think of that. Best not to think at all. Renarin turned from the stars.
“We didn’t pack a needle,” Kaladin said.
“Or thread.”
“No, we do have thread. We just didn’t get a needle.” Stuffing everything into bags in a blind panic and a hurry left holes like that. Ridiculous amounts of mismatched socks were the most obvious, leaving Renarin struggling to keep from having one sock inches taller than the other. It was hard enough to wear two of a different yarn or a different type of knit.
Kaladin held up the thread. Almost a full spool, too. “I was going to patch my sock.”
“Take one of mine if it’s bothering you. We’ve got an odd number anyway. We can unravel the old one, or burn it.” They’d need to feed the fire again. Renarin felt at the broken pieces of his box.
“No.” Kaladin reached into the pack. “Keep what’s left of your box.”
“It’s no use except to be burnt.”
“Your aunt gave that to you. How long is it you said you’ve had it? Nearly ten years? Keep it.”
They had enough oil to burn a few weeks more, and the inedible shells of the rare fruits. The kindling would run short soon. Renarin had vague concepts of how to turn the stony ground into a makeshift ditch, to light like a lamp. (They were lucky that, with so many Radiants around, Dalinar had thought to be sure there was redundancy for all stormlight lamps.)
“Yes, sir.” Renarin touched it a little longer, then pulled back with a splinter digging into his finger.
“Do I need to kiss it out?”
He ducked away from Kaladin. “No, Captain! I’m fine!” Renarin hissed and dug into his finger. It was still sticking out enough to grab, but his nails had been gnawed almost to the quick and struggled.
He didn’t need Kaladin’s help. He wasn’t a child, to be patronized and helped with every little thing. Renarin was a man. As much as he was incapable of, as useless and pathetic as he was, he could pull a splinter from his own finger.
He didn’t need to be patronized.
He’d never needed to be patronized.
By the time Renarin finally worked his splinter out, he was sure the look on Kaladin’s face was a mockery. He took a deep breath, trying not to scowl or throw it at him.
“Dinner should be ready soon enough.” Roasted crab. It was dry and bland, but inoffensive. Not anywhere near enough for the two of them, really, but it was better than nothing.
“Good,” Renarin said, dropping the splinter. “I look forward to it. Thank you.”
Kaladin looked at Renarin as if the boy were insane. Granted, he was, but Renarin squirmed inside with hot panic as to how his politeness was wrong now. He’d overcompensated.
When would Kaladin realize? He’d already learned to hate Renarin, but for the wrong reasons. How long until he knew Renarin for what he truly was— a halfwit playing at being a man?
To think Renarin had ever dreamed of earning his respect. That would never come. Now he had become a burden.
“You’re welcome,” Kaladin said simply, moving to poke at dinner in the ashes.
Renarin hummed and lay down, still trying to calm himself. His fingers tapped a relentless beat on the stones.
Still, it wasn’t as if Kaladin was the man Renarin had once held undying faith in. No. He’d turned out to be just like everyone else, and Renarin was a fool for ever thinking better existed.
“Dinner’s done,” Kaladin said. He tossed a crab to Renarin, and it hit him on the nose.
Renarin sighed and sat up, taking it in one hand and the knife Kaladin offered in the other.
“Sorry,” said Kaladin.
“It’s fine,” Renarin said. “I wasn’t fast enough.” It wasn’t like it had been hot enough to burn. Just warm. He cracked the shell open and handed back the knife. The meat really wasn’t bad. A bit dry, but when nearly all you ate was dried that didn’t matter as much. Renarin had no objections to bland and repetitive. Perhaps it would have been better with spices, or if they weren’t eating the same thing nearly every day, but it was simple. Renarin liked that.
They ate in silence, only a crab not even the size of Renarin’s palm each. Crabs were harder to catch when it was hot, and they didn’t have the time to dedicate the day to hunting.
It was freezing now. Once the shells of the crabs were half-buried, with numb fingers, Kaladin dug out all the blankets he could. Renarin’s predilection for collecting blankets, as many and as heavy as he could, was possibly the most useful thing he’d contributed.
He didn’t know what to make of the fact that Kaladin stayed close to him. Always touching, with one arm around him. It was a highly intimate way of laying.
Renarin breathed softly, unsure if he wanted Kaladin touching him or not. It felt wrong, but it was grounding, and distracting. He felt safe, at least.
He reached a hand into his pocket, gently feeling the warm pieces of smooth wood. Kaladin was already out like a light, mumbling softly as he felt the movement and reaching for Renarin’s wrist.
“Sorry,” Renarin whispered, hoping Kaladin would understand. “Sorry I’m the one you’re stuck with. I’m sorry it was me and not any of the others. I’m sorry for being so useless, Kaladin.”
Kaladin lay his hand on Renarin’s, his other arm tight around his chest. It was a while still before Renarin would join him in sleep.
For one vibrant moment, he’d begun to believe he could mean something, and that life could be more than a cage. Now, that was gone.
Kaladin, the man who’d once been his light, was taking it from him.