Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peet complained the whole time. He wanted to go to the Ornery Chull, but it was Lopen’s turn to pick. He had cousins that ran a small establishment on the edge of the warcamp, close to the border with Vamah. It was less of a formal establishment and more of a crack between two buildings that had been filled with food, ale and laughter. It was little more than a food stand in an alley, selling chouta and lavis ale with a couple cramped tables scattered around it. Like a city built into a lait. 

All the seats were taken. There were only a handful anyways. Rock and Sigzil sat, discussing the Horneater religion in more depth. Syl was buzzing around Rock’s head trying to provoke some kind of reaction from him. Lopen flitted about, seeming to know nearly everyone here and dragging the decidedly sour Peet around with him. They were all having fun, but Kaladin had instinctively positioned himself where he could keep an eye on the whole alley. He leaned against the stormward wall, and Moash stood beside him. 

They didn’t talk. Kaladin didn’t know how Moash had ended up with him instead of mingling with the others. He watched as Lopen introduced Peet to two more of his cousins, talking animatedly with them as Peet hung on the fringe of their conversation. 

“I didn’t realize Peet was so serious about Ka,” Kaladin said, trying to break the silence. 

“Hm?” Moash followed Kaladin’s gaze to the other two bridgemen. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they were married before the Weeping.”

“That quick?”

Moash shrugged, letting the words fall into the empty air between them.

Things had been tense between the two of them since Kaladin had forbidden Moash from speaking to Graves again. Moash barely seemed able to look at him. Part of the reason he’d agreed to come tonight was to ease some of that tension. He should have known it would be more difficult than sharing a few ales and forced conversation. Moash never made anything easy. That was his nature. Kaladin wanted to believe everything would be fine, that Moash would come around and see sense, but some wretched part of him couldn’t help feeling like this was the end of it. Their friendship, dead before it had really begun. As short as it had been, it was also a lifetime. 

The things they’d shared. 

He needed Moash to challenge him, to support him. He was comfort and strength. Kaladin felt he’d taken advantage of the way Moash had treated him like a person instead of an idol. He needed that. He would miss it. He would miss… 

“You’re not going to lose him,” Moash said suddenly. Kaladin turned to see Moash watching him from the corner of his eye. “That’s what you were thinking about, right? Quarters for married men. Bridge Four breaking up. He’ll still be Bridge Four, you know.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you look like someone just died?” 

“It’s…” Kaladin trailed off. “Thinking about the housing requisitions I’ll have to make.” 

Moash huffed what was almost a laugh. “Storms Kal, do you ever stop working?”

“Not really.”

Moash turned to him in earnest, resting his shoulder on the alley wall and studying Kaladin closely, expression unreadable. 

“What?” Kaladin crossed and uncrossed his arms nervously. Moash looked deadly serious; Kaladin was sure he was about to confront him again about Graves, and he steeled himself. He took a drink.

But when Moash spoke, he asked, “Have you ever thought about getting married?” Kaladin nearly spit out his ale, which earned half a smile from the other man. 

“I don’t— I’m not even courting anyone,” Kaladin answered. He’d been caught on his back foot, off balance. He certainly wasn’t ready for this conversation.

“Well, have you thought about courting?” Moash persisted, still watching Kaladin closely. So close, after having avoided him for so long. Kaladin felt warm, too warm, though it was autumn and the air was crisp. 

“Too busy,” Kaladin said, looking away, anywhere else. Lopen was now making Peet try chouta as the other man resisted. “I don’t have time to court. I have to look out for you lot.” 

“And who looks out for you?”

Kaladin shrugged. “Teft is good sergeant.”

Moash scoffed, turning away again, pressing his back to the wall. “He’s a little old for you.”

“Shut up, you know what I meant.”

“And you know what I meant.”

Silence fell again.

Why did Moash even want to know? Was it that strange that he was too busy to think about women? He tried to imagine what courting would be like now, but he didn’t know where to start. He had no potential candidates in mind and no idea where to meet them. And when would he have time to spend with her? Between his duties as a captain, extra sword training, extra secret radiant training, he barely found time to spend with his friends. However it was much easier for him to imagine a pretend girlfriend berating him for not paying enough attention to her than it was to picture dates and such.

“You’re different than I had guessed,” Moash said after a stretch. He didn’t look at Kaladin again. “When we were bridgemen, I mean.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“I don’t know,” he continued. “Everyone else thinks you’re one of the Almighty’s own heralds. Even after I started following you, I still thought, ‘there’s something else here.’ The big figures always cast long shadows.”

Kaladin nodded. He knew that as well as anyone. His anger at Amaram flashed like lightning, but he let it fade. Moash knew he wasn’t like that. He was maybe the only one. 

“I just expected something more… I don’t know. Just didn’t expect you to be…” Moash continued, considering his next words. “Such a prude.”

This time at least Kaladin was not mid-drink when he was caught off guard. 

“I’m not—” he started indignantly, but at that, the smile on Moash’s face cracked into a wide unabashed grin. Insufferable man. 

“Oh, you’re not?” 

“I’m definitely not having this conversation,” Kaladin muttered. “I need a refill.” 

He pushed through the small crowd, leaving Moash still grinning behind him. As he signaled the bartender for a refill, he saw Peet was halfway through the chouta Lopen had forced on him.

“Really?” he asked. “You too?” 

Peet only shrugged. Syl returned and circled his head in the form of a little blue axehound before settling in her usual form in front of him. 

“It’s the first time Peet’s smiled all night, Kaladin,” she said. “Maybe you should try some.”

“Pass.”

“Oh right, you like being miserable,” Syl said. “My bad.”

Kaladin just grunted. 

“How’d it go with your shadow?” she asked, looking over his shoulder at Moash.

Syl didn’t like to talk about the things that Graves had said. Kaladin still thought about the arguments he’d made, but Syl had made it clear where she stood on the issue. She didn’t like the way he was when he thought about this stuff, and so she always found a reason to be somewhere else when Kaladin was with Moash.

“He’s…” Kaladin trailed off. “I don’t know. I think he’s still upset with me.”

Syl tucked a strand of her translucent hair behind her ear.  “Maybe he likes it, too.”

“Likes what?”

“Being miserable.”

Kaladin didn’t respond. For a moment he wondered if Moash felt the things he felt. The darkness at the edge of his thoughts that lingered even when times were good. That spread uncontrollably when things were not. He looked over his shoulder, and Moash was no longer smiling. 

The bartender returned with Kaladin’s drink. “Here you are, Bright— er…” 

“Thank you,” Kaladin replied curtly, handing the man a clearmark in exchange. 

He pushed his way back through the crowd to his place on the wall, but when he arrived, Moash was leaving. 

“Hey!” Kaladin called after him, following behind, but Moash didn’t turn. Kaladin caught up and grabbed his arm. “Are you leaving?”

“Pretty obvious that I am,” Moash replied. Kaladin bristled at his tone, but bit back a comment. 

“I’ll walk with you.”

“But you just got a refill.”

Kaladin took a long drink, then dumped the rest out and left the tankard on one of the nearby tables. The patrons seated there shot him a glare. He expected Moash to protest further, but he just shrugged, continuing on his way as Kaladin fell in step beside him. 

Nomon was rising, and the market showed no signs of closing down as the two of them passed through. After the events at the tower, the people of Dalinar’s camp were finally starting to carouse again. More and more the warcamps were becoming actual cities. The only difference between this market and one in Alethkar was the neat intentional layout of a military encampment. As they made their way back to the barracks, they pushed through crowds of people moving between taverns and food stalls, enjoying their night off. 

Kaladin knew he had until the end of this walk to fix things, except he wasn’t sure now what was wrong. Moash had been smiling when he left and angry again when he returned. Angrier than before even. He racked his brain for something to say now. 

Then Moash spoke. “You had a girl when you were in Sadeas’ army.” It was halfway between a question and a statement. He was clearly guessing, confident that he was right but needing confirmation.

He was still thinking about Kaladin finding a wife, then? Kaladin tugged nervously at his collar. He hadn’t told anyone about Tarah yet, not even Moash. He hesitated, but answered, “I did.”

Moash nodded solemnly. “Have you tried to contact her?” he asked. “Rock managed to send a letter all the way to the Peaks. I’m sure someone could track her down.”

Kaladin sighed. “No, I… No. We parted on bad terms.” 

Moash looked at him briefly, expression darkening. “Because of what Amaram did?” 

“No, before that.” 

Moash didn’t press him, but the whole story spilled out of Kaladin anyways. Once he started talking, the words came easily. He talked about Tien and how Tarah had helped him. Their relationship, how she wanted him to go with her to Mourn’s Vault and he hadn’t. The unanswered letters. All the while, Moash listened patiently, never interrupting, though his expression inexplicably grew stormier with each word. Kaladin had thought opening up to him about this would make things better. The other men of Bridge Four would have killed to hear any piece of their captain’s mysterious history, but by the end of the tale Moash’s fists were clenched by his sides. 

“You just never answered her?” Moash demanded. 

“There was nothing left to say between us,” Kaladin said, bewildered by Moash’s intense reaction. “What we had was clearly over.” 

“You could still write to her now,” he insisted. Kaladin shook his head. “If you wanted to, you could fix it.”

“I don’t want to.” 

Moash scoffed, picking up his pace so he was slightly ahead. Kaladin grabbed his arm, stopping them both in the middle of the street. Other pedestrians had to step around where they’d stopped in the middle of the street, earning them a few pointed looks. 

“Why are you so upset?” Kaladin asked. 

“I’m not!” Moash barked. 

Kaladin kept his tone cool and even. His captain voice. “You clearly are,” he said. “You have been all night. Why don’t you just tell me?”

He steeled himself again for mention of Graves, but again it didn’t come. Moash exhaled sharply, and Kaladin loosened his grip on his arm. 

Moash’s voice was small when he spoke again. “I haven’t ever… had that.”

“What?”

“That. The…” Moash ran a hand through his hair. “A partner like that.”

Kaladin softened. This made much more sense now. The prodding about courtship and marriage. When he had asked Kaladin, he had been thinking about himself. His future with someone. Kaladin wondered if he had a girl in mind, but he couldn’t think of anyone Moash had seemed interested in. Skar might know. 

So was that it? Moash didn’t want to run off with someone without first making sure Kaladin would be okay? He felt a twist in his gut as he thought about it. He imagined having to attend Moash’s wedding, and he felt ill. Was Kaladin cursed to be alone forever? It was hard enough already to think about the other members of Bridge Four moving on. But Moash? 

“And you were teasing me about being a prude,” Kaladin murmured, trying to loosen the anxious knots in his chest. 

“Well, I’ve had—” Moash started, but stopped as a blush crept up his face, as his eyes shifted over the rest of the market. There was a pair of women a few feet away outside a tavern giggling amongst themselves and sneaking glances at where they blocked traffic.

“Not having this conversation for a full audience,” Moash said, grabbing Kaladin’s arm. Kaladin let himself be pulled down a vacant side street. 

The din of the crowd faded as they stepped down the dark alley. There was still some torchlight that made its way here from the market, but they were mostly walking under Nomon’s blue light. Moash stopped halfway.

“I’ve had partners,” Moash said, not quite meeting Kaladin’s eye. The words came out in a rush. He had a nervous energy, like he needed to get these words out of him. 

Kaladin felt panic rise in him. He nearly asked Moash to stop. He just knew whatever was coming was something he couldn’t bear to hear.

“Plenty,” Moash continued. “Just not the kind that ask you to stay in the morning. I joined my first caravan when I was… storms, thirteen, I think? I grew up on the road, more than I did in Kholinar. Living like that—never stopping in one place too long—you just don’t ever think about where you’re going. Part of what I liked about it, I guess. It’s easy, uncomplicated, when you don’t ask for anything more than you have in front of you.” 

“I think I—” Kaladin started, but Moash interrupted. 

“I’m not done,” he said, finally glancing up into Kaladin’s eyes. “I do now. Think, I mean, about where I’m going. The future. What I want. You gave that to me Kaladin. This new life, a road laid out before me.” 

“Moash—”

“I’m still not— Kaladin, listen, please.” Moash exhaled shakily, but his next words were firm and grounded. “When I think about that—what I want, the future—I want to share it with you.” 

Oh. That wasn’t bad. Kaladin felt the knots in his chest loosen, and he smiled. “You’ll always have a place with me,” he said softly, stepping forward and placing his hand on Moash’s shoulder. “All of you. Bridge Four is—”

Moash laughed, a manic edge to it, and Kaladin dropped his hand, confused.

“No, storms, Kal, I—” he laughed again. Tense. Anxious. “I’m not talking about the men. I’m talking about you. Just you.”  Kaladin froze.

Moash looked up to meet his eyes and added softly, “And me.”

A thousand half-formed thoughts whipped around his brain like storm debris. He caught them in glimpses. Oh this night makes so much sense now and Me too and Take it back.

The stillness of the alley crept under his skin. He could feel the chill bite in the air and hear the distant, muffled noise of the market, but here everything was too still; it felt as if no time was passing. Seconds stretched to days that Kaladin’s thoughts churned. Deafening in the silence.

But if we’re together who will scribe for me? and There are plenty of men who don’t have wives to scribe for them! Dalinar is widowed!

Dalinar actually used his generals’ wives to scribe for him. If Kaladin had a wife, would Dalinar call on her to scribe for him? Did Dalinar resent that Kaladin did not have a wife he could call upon? Was he letting Dalinar down? What would Dalinar think if he knew— 

Are you seriously thinking about work right now? A handsome man just confessed his love for you.

Dalinar may not have that problem for long, considering his relationship with Brightness Navani. She was starting to scribe for him more and more already. And see? Dalinar was in an unconventional, potentially heretical, romantic relationship right now, and Kaladin didn’t care. It was good that Dalinar and Navani had found happiness together! Dalinar wouldn’t hate Kaladin if— 

Love? Do you really think it’s love? and Wait, did you call Moash handsome?  

Was Moash handsome? Had Kaladin ever thought that before? Moash didn’t look like the men in Adolin’s fashion folios—or like Adolin himself, though Kaladin was loath to admit it—but he looked like himself. He looked like the man who was Kaladin’s closest friend. His sharp features became him. His hawkish face, that scar on his chin. Strong but lean, and nearly as tall as Kaladin was. His intense, deep brown eyes. The way he smirked when he was teasing. That low sure note in his voice when he spoke of something serious. 

You can acknowledge someone is objectively attractive without being attracted to them and You are so storming stupid, do you hear yourself?  

Had he ever looked at any man like that before? Before he could stop it, his mind supplied Meridas Amaram’s face, and Kaladin was hit by a wave of nausea, disgust and shame. There was some part of him that knew he had once thought the man handsome, admired him not only for his fabricated reputation of honor and integrity. Amaram had once been everything Kaladin had idolized. Envied. Craved? He felt close to vomiting as those terrible, shameful thoughts resurfaced. 

Moash froze, reading the disgust that was now evident on Kaladin’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice quavering. “We don’t have to talk about it. Ever. I’m—”

He turned abruptly and started walking further down the alley. Shamespren like red and white petals floated out from his wake.

It’s not you! and Just let him go and I’m so broken. 

It would be so easy to leave things like this. Let it slip out of his control. He was teetering on the edge of the chasm, that wretched nothing that threatened to claim him. He’d left Tarah’s letters unanswered. He could ignore this too until it faded. So easy to let it slip through his fingers; so much harder to face it.

But he promised that he would never be that wretch again. And he couldn’t leave things like this. If not for himself, then for his friend who deserved better than to think Kaladin hated him.

For the third time tonight, he reached out to grab Moash’s arm, pulling him so they were facing each other again. 

“Kal, just let me go,” Moash snapped, but Kaladin didn’t. “Just let me leave with some dignity.”

Kaladin opened his mouth but nothing came out. He found himself afraid of those words that died in his throat. What were they? “I need you” or “Let’s just go home and pretend this never happened” or “Please stay” or… 

“Kal?” Moash’s voice was much softer now, quieted by whatever he saw on Kaladin’s face. In lieu of a response, Kaladin just gripped his arm tighter. 

Kiss me.

As if for one small moment Moash could feel his thoughts, he did. 

Hesitant at first, then his hand came up to cup Kaladin’s jaw as he pressed closer. Everything else faded away. The winds in his mind quieted, matching the stillness of the moment. 

Moash’s hand slid from his jaw to the back of his neck, fingers gently slipping through his hair, and Kaladin gasped, out of breath. He was running, chasing something he wanted so badly; he wanted to push this feeling as far as it would go. It was so simple. Easy to see. How could he have missed it? Nothing else existed except this moment and this man who knew him and loved him anyways. And his lips. And his hands. 

There was only this moment where they were together under Nomon’s light, and things were simple instead of complicated, and Roshone and Elhokar and Amaram and Graves did not exist, and Kaladin would never have to choose between having justice or honor. 

Don’t think about that now. But now that the calm had cracked, the doubt poured in and the shadows climbed up the edges of his thoughts. Kaladin pulled Moash closer. Closer. As if he could bridge the rift between them with this. 

But it was too late. Kaladin could see everything with clarity

He wondered how long it would have taken him on his own to realize that when Laral had spoken of glory in war, she had been thinking of romance. He had been told by his father plainly what they’d wanted for him before he’d ever considered her a romantic prospect. Much too late to make a difference anyways.

Tarah had taken the lead in their courtship. Taking his hand and pulling him forward to a future that she could see and he could not. Would he have ever looked at her twice on his own? She had been so wonderful—he could never regret the time they spent together. He ached from guilt at the pain he caused her, but he did not ache for her. 

Kaladin ached now, but he lost sight of what he’d been running towards. Now he was only trying to outrun the thoughts that were gaining on him. What future could they possibly have? Kaladin’s grip loosened. He still had no idea how to approach telling Dalinar about Graves without implicating Moash. What if Moash’s involvement in the balcony incident was discovered? It was a miracle he hadn’t been discovered already. Kaladin could lose him that easily, just like that. And yet if he failed to report to Dalinar what he knew of the conspiracy, he would break his oath to protect. All these problems already and Graves would not stop for him to sort it out. Did he even want Graves to stop? 

He was going to lose. No matter what he did, every outcome was a failure of some kind. He was a failure. 

They broke apart. Moash slipped away, his fingers twirling a strand of Kaladin’s hair before letting go. Kaladin resisted the reflex to hold on tight. Let him go. He opened his eyes slowly, and when he looked, a laugh bubbled up despite himself. Floating by Moash’s head were two golden gloryspren. 

“Feeling good, then?” Kaladin asked him, nodding to the spren. Moash laughed too when he noticed them. 

“Storms, of course I am,” he said, watching them swirl around his head before fading away. “I just kissed Kaladin Stormblessed.” Kaladin’s cheeks warmed at the praise. 

“And,” Moash continued, turning back to Kaladin. “I’d like to do it again.” He was still smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Is this okay? He seemed to ask. Are we okay?

Kaladin was struck with the irrational thought that none of this was real. The first kiss was not real and would not be real until he kissed Moash again. Moash had kissed him, that’s all. Kaladin hadn’t said anything yet. No, this first one didn’t count. He still had room to get out of this— to fix this— but he could not kiss him again. 

What had he been thinking? That they would just… be together now? He was mortified at the thought. What would they tell the men? What if— What if they thought less of him? He was already so odd. The darkeyed captain. The spearman who read glyphs. Bridge Four was the only place he belonged. He couldn’t risk that. 

“Moash,” Kaladin said. Soft, to break the fall. 

“Don’t say it.”

“Moash, we— we should head back.”

“Are you serious?” Moash scoffed. “Whatever. You do that. I’m thirsty.” He pushed past Kaladin, knocking his shoulder roughly as he headed back the way they came. 

“Moash—”

“Stop it!” Moash yelled, turning on Kaladin, angerspren boiling at his feet. “This sick game you’re playing. I know you only came out tonight because you think I’m mad at you. Is that the only reason you let me—? Ugh!”

“I think you’re mad at me?” Kaladin shot back. “Wonder why.”

“Well, I am now!” Moash snapped. “But I wasn’t before!”

“Really?” Kaladin’s voice was rising to match. “You could have fooled me. You’ve hardly said two words to me since—” 

A small blue light passed the corner of his vision. Syl was back. Or maybe she hadn’t left. He felt embarrassed to think she might have seen all that. 

“Frustrated? Maybe.” Moash said bitterly. “But no. Storms, I know you always do the right thing, Kaladin. In the end.” 

He thought Kaladin was going to change his mind. 

“Did you—” Moash tried to steady himself, but he was shaking. He lowered his voice so only Kaladin could hear. “Did you only kiss me to make it up to me?” 

Kaladin couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. If he said yes, he was the biggest asshole on Roshar. And if he said no, he would have to admit— He’d be saying… Well, the question itself was a trap, right?

 “Unbelievable.” Moash huffed. “Whatever. Just leave me alone.” He turned to walk away again. 

Let him go this time. He wants to leave. He’s wanted to get away from you all night. Were you really so stupid to think he loved you?

But Kaladin couldn’t let him go. He called after him. “Are you going to see him instead?” 

He felt petty and small as soon as the words left his lips. He didn’t have to specify who he meant. 

Moash didn’t answer; he just kept walking away. Kaladin considered pulling rank, reminding him that he had ordered Moash not to speak to Graves again, but he already felt sick with himself. Moash turned the corner and was gone. Kaladin continued to watch the space he’d left. 

Syl pulled up beside him. “Kaladin?” she said, voice as small as she was. 

“I’m fine,” Kaladin whispered. 

“I don’t like the way he affects you,” she said. “He messes with your head. He doesn’t make you happy.”

“He does,” Kaladin insisted. “Sometimes.”

“How?” Syl asked without a trace of mockery. Her question was genuine. She didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand it either. Syl shivered, though the chill wind did not touch her. “You should be happy, Kaladin. You deserve that.” 

Do I?  

Kaladin let the stillness of the alley seep under his skin again. In the distance, he heard laughter, but he was so far away from it. They would all leave him eventually. Moash. Bridge Four. 

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Let’s go home,” he said to Syl, turning away from where Moash disappeared and widening the distance between them.

Chapter Text

Don’t give them the rope to hang you.

Something his uncle used to have to tell him constantly. On the road, he’d had a set of rules for dealing with lighteyes—move out of the way, don’t look them in the eyes, don’t speak unless spoken to—but it all came back to one core principle. If you give them an inch, any reason at all, they’ll take the length to string you up. Moash knew that better than most. 

Now crowds parted for him. Soldiers, even lighteyed officers, saluted him as he passed. People looked at him and saw him. He took up space. For the first time in his life he felt like he had substance. 

He was moving through an entirely different world, but he didn’t know what the new rules were. 

“This is the best approach,” Graves said after some deliberation. Now that Moash was a shardbearer, he was allowed to meet with Graves at his home without arousing suspicion. They met in his sitting room, though only Moash sat. Graves paced. It wasn’t a frantic, unsettling movement, but a soft lull like the tide. The steady gait of a man with heavy thoughts. “Believable cover, high chance of success with minimal chance of collateral.”

Moash nodded. They had already discussed this several times, but there was no harm in being thorough. He definitely liked this plan better as well. Arranging accidents? Shooting him from afar? No. With this plan, Moash could watch the life burn out of Elhokar’s eyes. The King would stand before Moash and be judged for his crimes. The way it should be. 

“Yes, this will do,” Graves continued. “And after all that drama, we won’t need anything from your captain at all.” He paused his pacing, considering, turning to address Moash fully. “And you trust Kaladin to see this through?”

It was not the first time Graves had questioned Kaladin’s new commitment to their cause. 

“How many times do I have to answer ‘yes’ before you trust me? ” Moash said. He had never been the best at biting his tongue for lighteyes—his uncle would have cuffed him on the ear—but Graves’ doubts were worthy of a little irritation. Moash had to remind himself that not everyone knew Kaladin like he did. Graves didn’t appreciate attitude, so he took a deep breath before adding with less bite, “Kaladin always does the right thing, even if it’s hard.”

“That’s what I worry about,” Graves said, resuming his movement. “Some men can’t see the whole picture when they have one man’s life in front of them. Many ‘good’ men will serve tyrants to preserve their own sense of honor.”

“Not Kaladin.” Moash hoped his answer was adamant enough that Graves would not ask again. 

It seemed to sate Graves for now. Of course, Moash couldn’t tell him the whole truth. 

He knew Kaladin had doubts. Graves was right; Kaladin was having trouble seeing beyond the one life that was in front of him. When Moash had gone to see him last, Kaladin had been in bad shape, unable to promise he was committed. But Moash didn’t need a promise in words the way Graves did. He had faith in Kaladin, even if Kaladin doubted himself. 

“A new dawn for Alethkar,” Graves said with finality. “I’ll be leaving the warcamps after this. I have business to attend to in the homeland.”

Moash frowned. This was the first he’d heard about Graves leaving. “What about Amaram?”

“Ah,” Graves said. “Right, the price of the captain’s silence.”

Moash bristled. It wasn’t like that. Lighteyes thought of everything as transactional. What do I gain from this? What do I lose? Even good ones like Graves couldn’t really understand that this was about justice. 

“Well, I haven’t forgotten, don’t worry,” Graves continued. “It will take time to plan, and I’ll need to examine how his death will factor into things.” 

Graves was always vague when he talked about “things” like this. “Things” needed to be accounted for, but he never said what. Moash didn’t really care, as long as the job got done. 

“How long will that take?” he pressed. 

“I don’t know,” Graves said, “but I’d like you to come with me to meet some of the people I work with. Get acquainted with our business.”

“I’ll ask Kaladin,” Moash said automatically, and Graves sighed. 

“It’s important work, Moash. Work I think you’d enjoy as well. You would be a valuable asset.”  

Moash tried not to preen at such meager praise, but before Bridge Four, he’d rarely been called ‘valuable’ by anybody in his life. Graves was building up to something. Trying to build him up. It worked. 

“You could continue to shape the future of this world,” Graves continued, “but your attachment to your captain will hold you back. You outrank him now. You don’t need his permission to pursue this opportunity.”

Yet he owed all these opportunities, and more, to Kaladin. He shook his head. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t Kaladin’s permission he sought. Again, Graves misunderstood. 

Moash didn’t know what Graves made of his ‘attachment’ to Kaladin. At times it seemed Graves thought Moash to be merely an incredibly loyal lieutenant, and at others, he seemed to guess at something more. Keep guessing, Moash thought. He couldn’t clarify even if he’d wanted to. 

Graves sighed again. “You’re not ready to move forward. That’s understandable. You owe a lot to him. But the world is bigger than one man, even Stormblessed. You’ll see.”

“I said I’ll ask him.” 

Graves just shook his head like a parent dealing with an obstinate child. “Well, don’t take too long reaching a decision. I’d like to cover as much ground as possible before the first highstorm.”

Moash sensed he was being dismissed, so he stood to go. He was already at the door when Graves spoke again. 

“Moash?”

He paused to look back. Graves was standing by the heating fabrial that had once been a hearth, looking into the ruby as if it were open flame. 

“Our bonds to others are important. They keep us grounded, remind us of what we’re striving for.” He raised his head to look Moash in the eye. “But they can also be chains. Don’t let him tie you to your old self when there’s a new one waiting for you.”

Moash didn’t want to talk back to Graves again, so he just walked out. 

He traced the way to the back door, where he would be less likely to be seen leaving, but he stopped just before the door.

Moash just needed a minute to get his head on straight before he headed out into the rain. As if to check it was still there, he summoned his shardblade to his hand, watching the water coalesce on the sides. By instinct he went to tap it on the ground to shake off the water, like an umbrella, and the tip of the blade cut directly through the rug into the stone floor. He hoped Graves wouldn’t notice the damage.

He knew now what Kaladin had felt about his powers. They’ll take this from me somehow. 

Better to use it while I can. 

He caught his reflection in a decorative mirror. Not for the first time, he barely recognized himself. Right hand still holding his shardblade, he brought his left up to touch under his eyes, as if to assure himself that what was reflected in the mirror was really true. The light tan eyes that looked back at him didn’t feel right on his face. 

No, Moash knew he wasn’t a real lighteyes, and if the real lighteyes knew it too, eventually they’d try to knock him back down again. He wasn’t going to let them. He didn’t care what Graves thought; he was going to save this world. He would make it better for people like him, like his grandparents and Bridge Four. Kaladin. 

He wasn’t going to do that by carving Kaladin out of his life. 

He forced himself to look at his face for longer than he wanted to. He would get used to it. He would make himself get used to it even if he had to stare at himself for hours. He didn’t have time for that now, though. 

The Weeping had always been a bad time for Moash. Caravans would use the time without highstorms to cross long distances. He liked to travel usually, but with the rain, you had to choose between riding in the carriage, which was boring, or walking outside and getting completely soaked, which was uncomfortable. He preferred Midpeace, which was also good for long trips, but without the rain. 

Moash wasn’t wearing his shardplate—less conspicuous that way, even though there was barely anyone in the camps—so he would have to save time to don it before his shift guarding Elhokar. He should still have enough time to check in on Kaladin again before work.

Their last conversation hadn’t ended badly, but it hadn’t ended well either. Kaladin had doubts. It was his spren’s fault really. Moash doubted Kaladin would be wavering now if Syl hadn’t left. Traitor. She should want Kaladin to seek justice, right? Where was the honor in letting crimes go unpunished? Yet she abandoned him, taking with her the power that she granted. 

Then again all Knights Radiant were supposed to be traitors to mankind, so maybe that made sense. 

Kaladin was outside the barracks when Moash arrived, walking around on a crutch. 

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Moash called to announce himself. 

“It’s fine,” he huffed. 

“That’s not what you’d say if it was one of us.”

Kaladin glared over his shoulder in response. 

Moash smiled. “I’ve half a mind to throw you over my shoulder and haul you back to bed myself.” 

“Try it,” Kaladin said. “See what happens.” 

Well, if he insisted. 

“No, wait!”

Careful of his leg, Moash scooped Kaladin up and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of lavis grain. Even with his injury, Moash knew there was no force in the cosmere that could keep Kaladin Stormblessed contained if he didn’t wish it, but now he only weakly beat his fists onto Moash’s back like a frustrated child. 

Back in his room, Moash laid him down on the bed, then took out a few spheres for light. Kaladin pouted. 

“You’re lucky I’m wounded,” he warned. “If I wasn’t worried about stressing my injury, I’d have had you on your back under me faster than you could blink.”

That’s not a threat, Moash thought, but he replied, “I’ll keep that in mind.”  

He placed the spheres in a bowl on the table, peeled off his wet uniform jacket, and then continued, “Besides, I’m just paying you back for your first day as bridgeleader.” He smiled remembering how mad he’d been at Kaladin then for picking him up and tossing him on the ground outside the barracks. And how mad he’d been in the days that followed for Kaladin’s efforts to bring them all together. It was unbelievable how far they’d come together. How much further they would go. “Now we’re even.”

Graves’ proposal weighed heavily on him, and he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject with Kaladin. It wasn’t what Graves thought. He didn’t need Kaladin’s permission or blessing to leave. Moash wanted Kaladin to come with them. 

Kaladin had the perfect opportunity to leave. Moash didn’t think anyone would see it as dereliction of duty. Kaladin was injured, and after the king was dead, nobody would protest if he stepped down from his role protecting the Kholins. They could leave the camps behind together, and nobody would think twice about it. But Moash knew Kaladin did not think much of Graves, and he didn’t know how to approach the idea of working with him further. 

“I remember,” Kaladin said with a small smile that faded quickly. “I… I went to the honor chasm the night before that.” 

All the levity was sucked out of the room. Moash sat on the edge of Kaladin’s bed. 

“Sorry,” Kaladin laughed humorlessly. “I’ve never told anyone else that.” 

Moash struggled for words. “Back then, you seemed so…” 

“Yeah.” 

He sat with Kaladin in still, reverent silence, giving the confession the weight it deserved. Finally, Moash spoke again. “What changed your mind?”

Kaladin squeezed his eyes shut, and answered so quietly he could barely be heard above the rain outside. “Syl.”

Moash felt a spike of anger at her for leaving him in pain. He clenched his fists in his lap. How dare she leave? When she knew how badly he needed her? 

Kaladin sat up, leaning back slightly on one arm. “I wasn’t like you growing up,” he said. “I thought about my future constantly, from the moment I could hold a scalpel. Everything I did, everything I said, or thought, or felt… or thought that I felt… I was always working towards something. Surgeon, soldier. And in one moment it was all gone. My brother…” He trailed off. 

Moash unclenched his fists and reached out his hand to place on top of Kaladin’s. Kaladin sucked in a breath, but didn’t move away. 

“Well, it all ended up with me there, on the edge of that chasm,” he said. “Every plan I ever made. Everything I ever sacrificed, all for some future that never happened. I felt like I couldn’t do the one thing I was good for. But I walked back to the barracks, and I promised that I would protect you all.” His voice cracked. “Moash, so many things could go wrong with your plans.” 

Moash quickly withdrew his hand. “I didn’t come here to talk about that, Kal.” He certainly couldn’t mention the plan to leave now.

“I don’t—” Kaladin struggled with the words. “If you get caught—”

“We won’t.”

“If you do,” Kaladin said more forcefully, “they will kill you, Moash.”

The words slipped between his teeth before he could catch them. “I’ll take a few of them down on the way.”

Kaladin grimaced. Moash could taste how bitter the words were, but he wouldn’t take them back. He just shook his head, staring down at his hands in his lap. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “As long as Elhokar is dead, I don’t care.”

I don’t care if I die.

When Moash had first arrived at the Shattered Plains, he had wondered if Elhokar had learned from his mistakes, if he was a better man now. Years had passed since Ana and Da had died in the dungeons in Kholinar. Elhokar had been a spoiled, untested princeling. By the time Moash came to the warcamps to seek revenge, Elhokar had had several years to rule. So first Moash would see if the man still deserved what was coming for him. 

Elhokar deserved it and more.

Guarding Elhokar offered unique insight. The king was nothing more than a petulant child in excessive finery, and when he threw a fit, every person in Alethkar suffered. All he did was whine about his uncle’s superior skill in governing and fear obsessively for his pathetic life. And as if none of that were enough, he’d come for Kaladin. 

Moash had never felt so angry and helpless in his life. It had all happened again, except this time he had been there to witness it as it unfolded. Elhokar imprisoned Kaladin as if he were making a point to Moash personally. This is what a king can do to ungrateful darkeyes who ask for justice. He owned everything Moash loved, and he could take it whenever he wanted, for whatever reason. And Moash could do nothing about it. 

Well, he could do something about it now. Elhokar would never, never, touch Kaladin again. 

“This is pointless,” Moash mumbled. He didn’t come here to fight about this again. “We won’t get caught.”

Kaladin was still. “Do you—” he started, but his voice shook. Then he took a deep breath and started again. “Do you still think about the future?” 

They had not had time yet to discuss what had happened between them. Kaladin had been imprisoned shortly after, and when he was released, the shards had been an extremely grand gesture—the wealth of kingdoms—so the least Moash could do was pretend it never happened. If that was what Kaladin wanted. 

Now, here Kaladin was, leaning closer, asking him about the things he said that night. Moash’s thoughts swirled. 

It wasn’t hard to figure out the kind of difficulty Kaladin was having with regards to the kiss. Moash wasn’t stupid. He knew how hard it was to accept those kinds of feelings, and he’d met many men in his life that reminded him again and again of the roles vorinism enforced. Sure, life was less strict in the eaves, but it wasn’t like Moash had never felt those pressures himself. 

But now Kaladin had brought it up? Moash felt a swell of pride at the courage that must have taken and stab of frustration at the implication. What did Kaladin think this was all for if not so they could have a future without fear? 

But his pride beat his frustration. Moash wouldn’t dance around it now. He wouldn’t meet that courage with fear. 

Moash looked up and met Kaladin’s eyes, their faces only inches apart. He made sure he answered clearly but calmly, as if Kaladin were a skittish horse. 

“You mean with you?”

Kaladin didn’t answer immediately. Maybe the next step was too hard for him to take. Then suddenly Kaladin was leaning in closer, closing the space between them. Kaladin kissed him, shaky but insistent, and nothing else mattered. 

Joy, pride, longing. Moash squeezed his eyes shut and pressed into this kiss every thought and feeling he’d had since the last one. The searing pain of Kaladin’s rejection. The anger at being sent away. The fear that he would lose another precious loved one to Elhokar’s pettiness. The love. All of his love. Kaladin could take it all and leave him empty. 

Kaladin’s hand twisted in the front of Moash’s shirt, and as Kaladin leaned back down, he pulled Moash down with him. 

Something’s not right.

Kaladin was so extraordinary, larger than life. The others treated him like a god, and there was something so divine about him. Moash loved that, but he knew Kaladin better than the others ever would. He knew Kaladin’s humanity, and he loved that too. Flawed and perfect. Broken and whole. He thanked the Almighty everyday for it, for you could never love a god the way you could love a man. 

With his other hand, Kaladin reached around Moash’s back, trailing up his spine and pulling closer. This isn’t right.

Moash remembered a night in Kholinar, in between trips. His feelings always felt bigger than his body could hold, and being in the city only reminded him of the things he’d lost. So he’d sought comfort then, someone to hold the excess. A fellow caravaneer, a Reshi man who suffered from none of the traditional vorin reservations about intimacy between men. Despite being treated with much more care than he was used to, Moash still woke up in the morning feeling completely hollowed out. It was what he thought he wanted, but he traded one pain for another.

Kaladin was hurting so badly right now, and as badly as Moash wanted to be the salve, he knew this wasn’t going to help. He let himself pretend for one moment longer, and then he pulled away. 

“Kaladin,” Moash said softly. Too softly, as Kaladin didn’t recognize it for what it was. He leaned up to meet him again, and Moash pulled back further. “Kal,” he said firmer this time. 

Moash sat up fully, as Kaladin fell on his back and pressed his palms into his eyes. 

“Don’t do this halfway, Kal,” Moash said. He knew Kaladin wasn’t invested in the plot, and he could accept that. He couldn’t accept the same half promises now. “Not this. I couldn’t take it.” 

He almost wanted Kaladin to refute him. Ask me to stay, he thought. Ask me to give it all up.  

Ask one more time, just once more, here and now, and Moash would do it. One word, and he would throw himself into Kaladin’s arms again. He would kiss him and kiss him again, until the Weeping was over, and the rain stopped, and the sun hung in the sky again. Dalinar would return, and the plot would be over, and Graves would be furious with them, and Elhokar would still rule Alethkar, and it wouldn’t matter because he and Kaladin would leave. They’d travel Roshar until they found a place where nothing could reach them, and Moash would kiss him again and again, endlessly, until they both stopped breathing. 

He almost wanted that, but he knew Kaladin would never ask. 

“I’m sorry,” Kaladin said weakly. He rolled onto his side, curling up with his back to Moash. 

There had to be words he could say now to make this better, but he didn’t know what they were. It was good that Kaladin didn’t ask him to give it all up again. Moash didn’t want to. He didn’t. Once Elhokar was dead, this terrible weight would be off of both of them. There would be time to talk about the future then. If Kaladin could just hold on a little longer, Moash was going to make this world more bearable for them. 

“I should go,” Moash said, standing and pulling on his coat again. He hesitated in the doorway. “Just— Hold on, ok, Kal? Just a little longer.” 

Kaladin only curled up tighter. Wrong thing to say, Moash thought. He wished he could go back and pick different words, but he just grabbed his spheres and left Kaladin laying in the dark.

Chapter Text

Bridge Four celebrated the triumphant return of their captain. There was plenty to do, but those who had been on Dalinar’s expedition found a place in Urithiru to settle and took a break for their nightly stew. The celebration was incomparable. Their captain—their bridgeleader—was a Knight Radiant, and everyone knew it now. They sang loudly and laughed easily. 

And Kaladin laughed with them!

At first. 

The exhilaration of the fight with the assassin in white, the joy at Syl’s return, and the glory of revealing his abilities to the world—eventually all of these things began to wane, and he began to dwell on the full scope of what this night had cost him.

There were several members of Bridge Four still at the warcamps, so no one yet questioned Moash’s absence. Kaladin could not bring himself to tell them yet. 

When Kaladin could no longer bear the light, the warmth and the laughter, he tried to slip away. 

“Got somewhere to be?” Teft said from behind him, halting him midstep. 

“Just tired,” Kaladin said, turning to face him. 

Teft gave him a stern look. “What really happened back there?” he asked, stepping closer and keeping his voice low so the others couldn’t hear. “You came out of that chasm, powerless, injured, and you told me Syl was dead, which you never explained either. Suddenly, she’s back and you’re dropping from the sky, glowing like an actual storming Knight Radiant of legend. And we’re all happy to see you, but—” 

“Teft,” Kaladin said, cutting him off. “If I promise to tell you tomorrow, will you let me go?” 

Teft studied him a moment, and then nodded, grumbling. “You better swear it. An oath. I want the full story. Unabridged.”

“Yes sir.” Kaladin saluted half-heartedly. Teft rolled his eyes, but let him go.  

Urithiru had no shortage of space. It was a city entirely composed of nooks and crannies to lose yourself in, and Kaladin wanted to be lost. The hallways twisted this way and that; he followed a vein of color in the strata of the wall until it ended, and then chose another. He kept walking until there was no one else around, and he could not remember the way back. Syl would be able to guide him when the time came.

“Kaladin?” Syl floated in front of him, standing still but moving steadily with him. “What’s wrong? I thought you were happy.”

“I am,” he said. 

“You were so happy,” she said, ignoring him. “I thought you were finally happy, for good.” 

“There’s no—” He started, but stopped. His voice was harsher than intended. He took a deep breath. “I am happy, Syl. I’m so happy. You’ve made me so happy.” Tears started to well in his eyes, and he ducked down a new corridor.

She smiled, but after a minute it faltered. “But you’re sad too? At the same time?” 

“Yes.”

“Because of Moash?”

“No,” Kaladin said. Then he shook his head. “Yes. I mean, sort of.”

It wasn’t just about Moash. It was him. Kaladin himself was the problem. He came to a small room with no other exits, pressed his back to a wall and slid to the floor. 

“I am so happy you’re alive,” he said again. “There are a hundred thousand worse ways today could have gone.”

“But?”

“But there are at least a handful of better ways too.” 

In the contest of who he was more upset with, there was no clear victor. Of everything Kaladin had imagined when he decided to go to the palace, he had never expected that Moash would try to kill him. Nothing Kaladin had said could reach him, and so their chosen paths set them in direct opposition to each other. Kaladin could not let Elhokar die, and Moash could not let Elhokar live. He wanted to hate Moash for that, but he could never. He understood Moash too well to hate him for anything he’d done. Instead his thoughts turned inward. He hated his indecision that led them both to that point. He hated his ineffectual pleas. Why hadn’t Kaladin been good enough to save Moash from himself? 

“You did your best, Kaladin,” Syl said. “It was hard, but you chose to protect. You chose to honor your oaths. You did good.” 

“I could have done better,” Kaladin replied. The words tumbled out of him. There was familiar comfort in guilt, and he cloaked himself in it. “I should… I should have made better choices. From the beginning. Then maybe…” 

Why was it that every good and happy thing in his life came with some unbearable cost? He could not accept that this was the way it had to end. He could have changed it, if only he’d been better. If he’d trusted Dalinar to address the claims he’d made about Amaram. If he’d reported the conspiracy sooner. If he hadn’t let his imprisonment convince him that Graves was right. If he hadn’t kissed Moash the second time. 

In the cruelest twist of all, he could finally see it again. Only now, knowing it was completely out of his reach, could he see the future they could have had together. The vision that had appeared and slipped away so quickly the first time they’d kissed. 

“There’s no such thing as ‘happy for good,’ Syl,” Kaladin said, squeezing his eyes shut as if that could banish the visions in his mind. 

Syl was quiet. 

“I hoped ‘happy for now’ would last longer.” Syl’s voice came from right beside his ear. He opened his eyes, turning to see her sitting on his shoulder. She reached out, though she had no substance, to place her small hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, imagining he could feel it.