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The days are slow and cold, growing slower and colder as the season wears on. Winter. A killer on past injuries and an inspirer of miniature outbreaks of flus and coughs. At first, this is what Kaladin pins all the blame upon; he’s tired, he hasn’t been sleeping, the cold is making his battered joints act up and he must’ve caught something unpleasant- but manageable- from one of his men. He spends a day unwillingly cooped up in bed after the smell of the morning meal simmering away in the pot pushes his stomach straight over the edge and he just barely makes it out of the mess hall before he spews. It’s humiliating. Everybody frets over him for days. They force him to stay inside. They threaten to tell Brightness Navani.
The nausea dissipates. Kaladin gets on with his life. Meetings, long days spent at the princling’s side, gatherings for team morale, long…nights…also spent at the princeling’s side…
In retrospect, that may be why he’s in this mess.
The first night he spends with Adolin after his brief illness is what causes all ensuing wariness. Kaladin falls asleep in the young prince’s arms only to jolt awake not three hours later, stomach and throat both tied into knots. He gulps, takes a few steady breaths, and slips out of Adolin’s bed. The prince stirs but doesn’t wake. Kaladin dresses hurriedly, laces his boots up crooked in his haste to be free, and escapes into the night, already connecting the dots in his head. He throws up lavishly in a potted plant a little outside the royal family’s quarters.
Later that very morning, he gets himself to a physician. The man introduces himself, asks Kaladin to strip down, pokes and prods, poses all sorts of questions.
“How old are you, son?”
Kaladin nearly flinches at the term. He lays back on the examination table. The room is dim and cold and it makes him itch to run from it all.
“Twenty,” he says quietly.
The doctor hums. He gently palpates different spots on Kaladin’s abdomen, searching for any pains or abnormalities. He doesn’t find any. It doesn’t make Kaladin feel any less sick.
“You look pale,” the physician comments. “Can I…get you anything?”
Kaladin sets his jaw. Swallows determinedly. “I’m alright.”
The doctor hums like he doesn’t believe him. Kaladin just lies and waits, dreading the inevitable, hating and fearing what he already knows. Call it a gut feeling. Call it instinct. Whatever. He’s only here on the slim chance that a doctor can diagnose something else, something curable.
“How have you been sleeping lately,” the doctor asks, just exactly as though he already knows the answer. Kaladin sighs silently, studying the strange strata and grooves on the ceiling.
“Well,” he says. Then: “Unusually well, actually. I used to have trouble, but for the past couple weeks, it’s like-“
“-You’re much more tired than you should be?” The physician’s expression betrays nothing. Not a trace of judgement, not a hint of enthusiasm. Kaladin can’t decide if he loves or loathes the man for this. He nods.
“Your diet?”
“Fine.”
“Any new or sudden dizziness? Lightheadedness?”
Kaladin thinks back to last week, when taking a stroll with Shallan had suddenly become a fight to stay upright without letting her in on his foible. He nods again.
“I see.” The physician scratches at his chin, glances away for a moment, appears to be thinking over his next course of action. He motions for Kaladin to sit up and tells him he can go ahead and clothe himself; he’ll wait for the young captain to finish before dispensing his final diagnosis.
“Well, son, I’ve got one more question to ask you,” he says, once Kaladin is ready. Kaladin bites his bottom lip.
“Yes?”
And now…now he’s here. Alone. In his room. Fighting back tears. His head hurts, his eyes are puffy, he should really get up and wash his face, have something to drink, get ready for his day. He’s stuck guarding Dalinar today, which means a probable brush with Adolin and/or Shallan, but no guaranteed contact. Not ideal but it’ll have to do. He pushes himself up on his elbows, feels the weight he’s already gained bunch up at his middle, shudders…he realizes, helplessly, that he feels so terribly alone in this. Even with Syl hovering over him, trying to coax him out of bed, reassuring him that, somehow, everything will work out…he feels lost. He feels cold. He stands up for the first time that morning and sways dangerously, propping his weight clumsily against his bedpost. Syl clicks her tongue in disapproval.
“Meal-skipper,” she accuses, flitting about in an anxious pattern. “You’ve gotta keep your strength up, Kal! Now more than ever.”
“Please,” Kaladin begs, voice hoarse. He finds the pitcher of water at the other end of the room and pours himself a glass. Downs it furiously. “-don’t make me think about it. Just-…just stay close, okay? Stay close and don’t mention it.”
Syl looks saddened. She pushes her lower lip out in a contemplative pout, then zips out of Kaladin’s sight and takes up residence in some other form. A harder-to-see-form. But he can still feel her there, still sense her closeness.
The day is, predictably, slow and cold. Kaladin’s layered uniform suddenly seems so lacking in the face of the winter chill, and he finds himself resisting the urge to curl in on himself and shudder like every muscle in his body is screaming at him to do. He trails Dalinar dutifully all day long, attending strategic meetings of the minds, a brief crisis involving a few of the vendors who’d been sharing tents and meddling in unsavory practices, and- worst of all- a lunch with Brightness Navani.
She asks him to join them, says she can hear his stomach growling from here when he declines, then- oh, storms- looks worried when he, again, refuses. Her face grows more serious, the lines deepening with recognition.
“Are you alright?” She’s getting up now, making her way over to him. Dalinar’s attention is taken and he, too, turns to cast a scrutinizing eye in Kaladin’s direction. Their faces are so open, so trusting, so…so mother-and-father…storms, he thinks he might cry. He mustn’t cry!
“I’m fine, Brightness,” he tells her, standing as straight as he can manage. She comes closer still, inspecting him, checking his eyes, his gait, his complexion…Kaladin swallows back the nerves.
His stomach is killing him.
“You are not,” Navani determines, brushing a hand beneath his bangs. She wrinkles her nose when she can’t find evidence of a fever. “So either you’re going to clue me in or I’m going to have to relieve you of duty for the rest of the day.”
Kaladin’s stomach growls. It’s a horrid battle- the hunger pangs versus the nausea. His mouth waters dangerously. He swallows again. He swears Navani notices that too.
“Navani’s right, captain. You look like death,” Dalinar weighs in. He places a hand on Kaladin’s shoulder, squeezing softly. He feels so small, stood in front of these two. So vulnerable, so- so young. His stomach twists. Without thinking, a hand flies to the spot. So very obvious. Navani and Dalinar exchange a glance.
“Kaladin,” Navani says, voice low and serious but not without compassion. She raises a hand to cup the captain’s cheek. “Tell us what the matter is.”
Kaladin wants to answer her, wants to let her in, let her know. He’s been dying to be held, to be understood and consoled, but how- how- could he possibly put his predicament into words? He doubles forward a bit, spear dropping to the stones below, both arms pressed flush against his middle. Dalinar and Navani put their hands on him, keep him upright, try to figure out where- and why- he is hurting.
He barely manages to pull himself away before he throws up. It’s mostly water. Water and stomach acid. The previous night had left him with a belly full of anxiety and there hadn’t been room for much else. There’s a long moment wherein he stands there, back turned to the royals, panting and wheezing and totally mortified, but then the moment passes and he finds himself retching again, brought to his knees by an overwhelming fatigue and a want to hide far away from everyone who knows him. He brings up another mouthful of water. Syl buzzes about like a distressed honeybee. Painspren wriggle up out of the floor to grab at his clothing. Navani kneels down beside him to tie his hair in place and rub his back. He groans, ever-so-smally, and she hushes him, pressing her forehead to his temple. Kaladin’s got both hands clutched to his belly, and Navani, sensing his unrest, follows his example and places her hand there too. A realization sweeps her. She turns and tells her husband to find Adolin and Shallan.
Once Dalinar is gone, Navani turns to the young man- the boy- in her arms. She slides one hand over his shoulders, pulls him in closer- far too close for a darkeyes and a noblewoman- and she shushes and coos and coddles. Kaladin realizes, to his horror, that he’s begun to cry. Slow, heavy tears that rip no sobs from his throat. It’s the sort of quiet, devastated crying one does when one does not want the attention of a full breakdown. Navani knows. She knows damn well what’s wrong.
“You are with child,” she says, almost challenging Kaladin to tell her she’s wrong. He doesn’t. He nods.
“How long?” She asks. Kaladin moans.
“Ten weeks.”
She makes a sound of sympathy, rocks herself and her newfound charge back and forth. “Poor baby,” she says.
Suddenly Kaladin can’t stop himself. The guilt is eating him alive and somebody has to know: “It…it was an accident,” he says.
“I know,” Navani replies easily.
“It’s Adolin’s,” he chokes out, scarcely able to believe this giant fucking mess he’s created.
“I know,” Navani says again. Then: “we’ll take care of it.”
Kaladin isn’t sure what that means, but Navani doesn’t sound foreboding when she says it. She’s warm and steady and she tucks a hand to his tummy and brings his head down to rest on her shoulder when his stomach gurgles again. Kaladin grimaces at it, at the way his head spins and his stomach aches. He hasn’t been taking very good care of himself.
“You’re hungry,” Navani tells him, as though he can’t tell.
Kaladin nods, swallowing a touch convulsively. “Mhm.”
“But you can’t keep anything down?” It’s a guess. But a correct one. Kaladin nods.
“No, Brightness,” he says plainly. He clings to this woman like a lifeline. It’s entirely unbecoming. Navani hums sympathetically.
“I was the same way with Jasnah,” she says, once again rubbing at Kaladin’s back. “It was a vicious cycle…but it doesn’t last. You’ll have your appetite back soon enough, just wait and see.”
Wait and see. Wait. And. See. Just those three words alone cause a stomach ache of a completely different caliber. Wait and see, Kaladin! Soon enough, your uniform won’t fit anymore. Soon enough you’ll be sidelined from any and all active duty. Soon enough you’ll be screaming, delirious with pain, giving birth to a blue-eyed infant which won’t legally be allowed in your care!
He leans wholeheartedly against Navani until Dalinar returns with Kaladin’s beloveds, each of whom immediately drop down to the floor and begin to inspect him. The questions begin to spill out, but thankfully Navani bats most of them aside with a simple, “he’s not feeling very well,” in lieu of the longer, much more life-changing explanation. That’s still Kaladin’s responsibility, and he feels it weigh heavily in his chest when the father of his soon-to-be-child hoists him to his feet, placing the crook of Kaladin’s elbow at the back of his neck.
“Get him to bed,” Navani tells him, “and make sure he eats!”
_____
Shallan and Adolin tuck Kaladin into the latter’s bed, fussing over the blankets, the curtains, the candlelight. It’s midday and yet Shallan’s blocked out most of the drab gray outdoors, choosing instead to fill the bedroom with a soft, amber glow. Adolin peels the layers from Kaladin’s uniform, pauses so very shortly when he sees Kaladin’s middle, the way the buttons strain where they never have in the past, and Kaladin, lying back against the pillows, totally exhausted, decides that he hasn’t got much left to lose. He’s treading water right now, delaying the inevitable. Eventually he’s going to look different enough that everyone will have to notice, and he can’t justify making his partners wait so long. He takes a breath, rests both hands atop his imperceptibly-bigger belly.
“I’m pregnant,” he gets out, the sounds tumbling over one another, not making much sense. Silence reigns supreme for a good twenty seconds. Shallan and Adolin first look at each other, mouths agape, then at Kaladin, still gobsmacked. Kaladin feels a chill grip his spine, feels his stomach curdle. It’s impossible to tell whether these two are excited or mortified. He does his best to hide it but his distress surely shows through on his face. He grips the sheets tighter, shielding his stomach. No turning back now.
“What?” Shallan sounds starstruck. Breathless. She sits at the edge of Adolin’s bed without any fanfare at all. Kaladin’s heart pounds.
“Are you sure?” Adolin’s voice. Like a fire in the hearth. Kaladin nods.
“How-“ Kaladin already knows what he’s going to ask. Like auntie, like nephew, he supposes.
“-Ten weeks,” he supplies. “It’s why I’ve been so sick lately. And achy. Tired-“
“-And moody,” Shallan finishes. Kaladin thinks she might’ve meant to make a joke out of it, but her shock and distress overwhelms her sense of humor. It comes out flat.
“Yeah,” he concedes, knowing she’s right. He waits, chewing his lip, for a more concrete response. It takes a couple moments.
“And you’re….okay with this?” Adolin asks, one eyebrow raised. He’s got his lips screwed up in an expression of quandary, like he isn’t sure how to approach. Kaladin swallows the lump in his throat. He shrugs.
“Kind of have to be,” he says, laughing wetly. The laugh turns into a sniffle and the sniffle turns into a frustrated cough. He wipes at his eyes with the heel of one hand and before he’s finished, Shallan lunges forward to hug him. She throws her arms around his shoulders and squeezes like she’s never going to get a chance to squeeze him again. And he lets her. He even hugs her back a bit, resting his chin on her shoulder and burying his face in her red hair.
“Oh, Kal,” she breathes. Adolin joins in, hugging them both close, kissing the scars on Kaladin’s forehead.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, which isn’t exactly what Kaladin was expecting, but also not entirely unwelcome. “I’m so sorry, I- I should’ve been more careful! I should’ve realized earlier that you- I’m so sorry.”
Kaladin shakes his head because he isn’t sure what else to say. There’s been this dark cloud hanging over his head for the past week or so and he’s fairly certain it’s only partially to do with the baby. His heart hurts. His stomach hurts. He needs to rest but he’s already so tired of resting.
Eventually the hug breaks up. Adolin and Shallan pull far enough away so they’re each sitting independently of one another, and Kaladin goes back to lying down, curls spread over Adolin’s pillows.
“Navani said to make sure he eats something,” Shallan recalls suddenly, looking to Adolin out of pure habit.
“On it!” Adolin’s out of the room before either of his paramours can argue. He leaves a quietness in his wake. Shallan sighs once, then comes to lie down at Kaladin’s side, her head on the neighboring pillow. Their hair mingles together.
“It’s going to be okay,” Shallan says, apropos of nothing. Kaladin huffs out a defeated scoff.
“Everyone keeps saying that,” he laments, somewhat bitter. It’s easy for them to say- they weren’t currently carrying evidence of an elicit affair beneath their shirts.
“Because it’s true,” Shallan persists, reaching out to clasp one of Kaladin’s hands in hers. He shifts to look her in the eye. “Because you’ve got us.”
“I have no clue what I’m doing,” Kaladin counters.
“Neither does anybody else- you’ll fit right in.”
“The baby will be light-eyed.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m not light-eyed.”
“No- you’re a Radiant.”
The nausea curls itself in Kaladin’s gut. A sharp cramp seizes him. He recoils a bit, accidentally pushing Shallan’s hand against his stomach. She just lets him, opting to rub a few slow circles into the spot. A tear escapes Kaladin’s wall of fortitude and slides down to the pillow, wetting his hair in the process. His breath hitches.
“I’m not ready,” he murmurs. Shallan hums, clearly putting on a brave front.
“You will be,” she tells him, hand still pressed against his belly. “You’ll see.”
Kaladin, the cadence of his breaths beginning to waver, heaves a few deep lungfuls to try and get this surge of emotion under control. There are tears welling up in every part of him, but he is so sick of crying that he’s determined not to give in this time. No more! He won’t be caught blubbering again. Just as he thinks he may be out of the woods, another hunger pang hits him and he squirms a bit, groaning softly before he can stop himself. Shallan rubs at his stomach once again- it’s the only thing she can think to do.
“I’m-…not feeling very well,” he admits, as though it isn’t obvious. Shallan hums again, rolls over, and pecks him on the cheek.
“That,” she kisses him again for good measure, “is something we can fix.”
Before long, Adolin is back bearing gifts from his favorite cook. “I had to check with Aunt Navani first,” he explains, “you know because she’s- er, done this before? Anyway, she said you absolutely do not need to eat all this, but-“
He presents a spread of options; mostly bland breads and plain broths. There’s a bottle of milk- real milk- which almost instantly makes Kaladin feel guilty. That stuff is hard to come by in Urithiru. There’s a small selection of plain cheeses, a couple apples, some celery, bland pasta…Kaladin feels a bit overwhelmed by all of it. He can’t bring himself to choose anything. Every time he comes close, his stomach clenches and he feels like gagging. It’s torture, plain and simple.
“…I don’t think I can do this,” he says, a rare admission of defeat, an even rarer pleading look for help.
“Try the broth first,” someone suggests. All three heads snap to attention, focused intently on the doorway as Dalinar strides through, looking grim. “Your stomach is unsettled because there’s nothing in it. Drink the broth first- slowly- and then try something solid.”
Kaladin nods, reaches for the canister containing the plain bone-broth, and unscrews the cap. He’s hesitant at first but the moment the warmth and the salt settle over his tongue, he becomes some sort of ravenous thing, gulping down the half-portion of broth much quicker than is probably recommended, and causing his future father-in-law to come forward and stop him with a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, soldier. Easy. Take a breath.”
Kaladin does as he’s told, pries himself away from the canister when there’s little more than a mouthful left inside, and waits a moment. It isn’t long before he’s downing the rest, however, leaving Dalinar to rub tiredly at his temple.
“Wait a few minutes before trying the solids- that’s an order. You do too much at once and you’ll regret it. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” Kaladin replies, settling back against Adolin’s headboard. Dalinar regards the three of them, cuddled up on his son’s bed, and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” he says, mostly to himself. “You, all of you, have always been so close. I suppose even I can be a victim to wishful thinking…”
Kaladin feels a pit in his stomach, and it isn’t the morning sickness. “Sir?”
“Is it Adolin’s?”
Kaladin’s mouth feels dry. Unable to speak, he nods just once. Sits up straight. Like a soldier.
Another deep, beleaguered sigh. Dalinar shakes his head. He isn’t looking at any of them. “So stupid…how could you let yourself be so stupid?”
Kaladin’s heart sinks. He opens his mouth to respond, but can’t find anything useful to say. His first instinct is to defend himself but how? He knows it was stupid- he’s been telling himself just that from the moment he began to suspect his condition!
“Father, it isn’t his fault!” Adolin leans in closer, posturing for a challenge. “He’d been starved in Sadeas’ camps- he had no reason to believe he could-“
“I wasn’t talking to him,” Dalinar inclines his head in Kaladin’s direction, though his frustration- his fury- rests solely on his son, “I was talking to you! You are a Highprince’s son- you are engaged to be married, you knew the risks were much higher for our young captain than they were for you! Surely!”
Adolin looks taken aback for a moment. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, blue eyes wide and searching. There’s nothing to say. He shuts up and nods.
“Right,” he mumbles. Dalinar huffs out a breath.
“Captain Kaladin?” Kaladin is suddenly at attention all over again, waiting for his next order. “I hope you can trust me when I say we will take care of you. Alright?”
Something warm blossoms in Kaladin’s chest. He nods.
“Yes, Sir.”
“That means anything you need- anything at all- got it?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And I don’t want to hear any stories of you collapsing on the job. You’re a strong young man, but you work yourself into the ground much too often. The next I hear of you skipping meals or forgoing sleep, I confine you to your barracks for a day.”
“Of course.”
Dalinar sighs once again. He sweeps his gaze very slowly over all three young lovers. Shakes his head in dismay.
“Rest easy, soldier. Report to your shift tomorrow if you are up to it.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
And with that, Dalinar exits, closing the door in his wake. Kaladin, Adolin, and Shallan are left in silence. Kaladin musters up the courage to try a bit of the pasta and cheese and, to his immense relief, it’s divine. The food itself is bland but Kaladin hardly cares because Dalinar was right- the broth has helped. Suddenly his appetite has returned with a vengeance and he can hardly wait to sate it. Shallan and Adolin share in the meager meal, of course, welcome to the food Kaladin won’t be finishing because he simply can’t; Navani and Adolin packed much more than was needed.
Once mealtime is through and the excess food has been packed away, the three lovers lie together on Adolin’s mattress, Kaladin in the middle, Adolin hugging him close from behind, and Shallan lying on her side, facing the other two. They speak to one another in hushed whispers, Shallan toying with Kaladin’s hair, Adolin resting his hands gingerly against Kaladin’s middle. Kaladin dozes for a short while, feeling their warmth, listening to their breaths, their laughter, the little tunes Shallan sometimes hums to herself, always unfinished. He’s almost drifted off to sleep when his lower belly grips him with another cramp and he hisses out a note of pain. Shallan and Adolin are immediately on edge- Shallan even starts to sit up, but Kaladin reaches out and catches her by the wrist, coaxing her back down.
“You alright?” She asks, casting a worried glance down at his stomach. Kaladin nods.
“It was just a cramp. Caught me off guard.”
“Think you ate too fast?” Adolin’s voice reverberates against Kaladin’s shoulder blades like a cat’s purr. He rolls halfway over, trying to catch the princeling’s expression.
“…Maybe,” he admits. Adolin rolls his eyes, still rubbing carefully at Kaladin’s belly.
“Don’t let my father hear that- he’ll never let you know the end of it.”
Kaladin chuckles to himself. He cups his own hands over Adolin’s, resting against his abdomen. Adolin freezes for a second, ducks his head forward, buries his nose in Kaladin’s dark curls.
“…I’m so sorry,” he says again. Kaladin sighs to himself.
“It’s done now,” he says, “so stop apologizing- you look like an idiot.”
“Right.”
Then, for a long while none of them talk, none of them laugh. They’re all together, half-asleep and almost mournful. Thinking far too much and yet doing their best not to think at all. Then, in the midst of the quiet, Kaladin forces out a much-needed admission. One which requires a not-insignificant stock of bravery to supply: “I’m terrified.”
“We know,” Shallan assures him, snuggling in close. He wraps his arms around her. She tucks her ear against his chest to listen to the beating of his heart.
“We are too,” Adolin agrees, resting his chin over Kaladin’s shoulder.
It isn’t long before the lot of them are asleep, and for once, Kaladin’s dreams are merciful. For once, he feels well and rested when he wakes.