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Chapter Text

Before he arrived, Masha had never seen death.

She had read, of course, countless histories where men warred, bled, were slain by the hundreds in clashes over power or pride. She had transcribed accounts of grievous wounds, of illness unto death, of plague.

Though her parents did not speak it aloud, Masha knew they were puzzled by her fascination with histories, with those who willingly chose to subtract. Masha was grateful they still encouraged her scholarship. But real death had never touched her, not beyond the sheep they slew to live, thanking them for their sacrifice.

Not until the day when the door opened in the midst of the storm, and a stranger nearly collapsed upon their doorstep. He wore tattered robes that had once been white, and a wound bled from the socket of his missing arm . He had refused to rest - would not even sit - until her father agreed to help him bury his friend.

When he entered the house, Masha saw the black sword he bore.

They bandaged the stranger, wrapped him in blankets. Masha watched warily, unsure whether to speak. This was no simple soldier. She had heard the news whispered in town, the tales of an assassin in white who roamed the east with a sword that bled shadows. This man had slain kings, slaughtered strongholds, been a legend made flesh. He had defied death itself. But as she regarded this stranger before her, who held himself upright even as his body shook, who thanked them for their kindness even as his eyes fixed on nothing, she saw only a stunned weariness.

He was not a threat - at least, not now. So when her mother sent her to fetch the healer from the town, she obeyed. Her father had taken the wagon, so she rode their ancient mare, coaxing her to run as fast as her aged bones would allow.

When she returned with the healer, dismounting to fetch cool water for the horse, she heard the creak of her father's cart and turned to see his solemn face, and a long cloth-bound form atop the cart.

The man was younger than she had expected. His face, somehow, was free of blood, but his skin, once a warm brown, had taken on a gray pallor. A complex tattoo adorned his brow. His mouth was peaceful, almost smiling. If it was not for his eyes, she could have believed him asleep.

But his eyes.

She had read what a Shardblade would do to its victims. She had transcribed soldiers’ accounts into her histories, read with fascination as they described the effects of the merciless blades. But her research had not prepared her for this. The man's eyes were charcoal craters, spidery lines stretching from them, spreading across his skin. Black did not describe the pits - they were beyond color, burned bleak like a candle’s taper. For one wild moment, she expected him to crumble to ash.

She had known death then.

The stranger had not wept, upon seeing his friend - only raised himself on shaking legs, steadying his body against the cart. Pulling something small and smooth from his tattered robes, his hand had clasped the corpse’s, uncurled the stiffening fingers, tucked something into the palm. Only then did he allow the healer’s ministrations.

When they buried the body, Masha had wielded a shovel alongside her father, perspiring and coated with dirt. Though the sky was still dark since the storm, the earth still chilled by the rain, humidity hung heavy in the air. Wiping her brow, she reflected on the day. How could it have been only hours since the morning? Since the legend in white, the bane of so many kingdoms, had arrived at their door? But the assassin had been so gentle with his friend. So polite to her mother. And even bleeding, maimed, he had petitioned her parents’ aid with courtesy, though desperation blazed in his eyes. This was a man of contradictions, and she was more curious than afraid. But questions must wait, she reminded herself. He needed to heal.

—----------

The days passed - a week, another. Masha had told her parents who he was. She would not feel right letting them care for him, not knowing. When they heard, her mother's eyes went wide, her father's face paled. But they would not deny him hospitality, not when he was in need. They tended him cautiously, with unspoken wariness. But they tended him.

He barely ate, but he often drowsed. He had refused to use her bed or her parents’, acquiescing for only as long as the healer insisted, but she saw how he sought quiet, how talk made him withdraw. So when he was sleeping, exhausted by pain, Masha dragged her bed out by the fireplace, leaving scratches in the wooden floor.

He woke to find himself supine in her small room, atop a pile of quilts, a pillow under his head. A stool-size table by his side bore cloths, water, and a bowl of fruit. A woven basket held more bandages. When Masha entered, a steaming mug in her hands, he startled, then stilled, regarding her with an expression she could not decode.

She walked to the assassin, moving aside the cloths to set the mug on the table.
“Dandelion tea,” she explained. “It will settle your stomach. Help you eat and gain strength.”
He stared, unblinking, seeming to listen to something, though Masha heard no sound.

“You are kind,” he said finally, voice just above a whisper, throat dry from disuse. “I thank you.”

She had so many questions. She chose only one, her tone cautious, but her voice strong.

“What is your name?”

“Szeth son son Vall - Szeth son Neturo,” he finished, a flash of pain on his face.

“Masha-daughter-Shaliv,” she said, with what she hoped was a warm smile. He was so hesitant, so reserved. She could connect to that, as she herself usually preferred solitude. But he seemed anxious, in pain that was not just of the body. She wished she knew how to bring him calm.

—--------

On the first night without a moon, Masha awoke to muffled cries, and fright shot through her chest. Her parents were healthy, she knew, but aged. They rarely complained of fatigue or the aches that came with advancing years, but she could see it in their bowed shoulders, the way her father's joints creaked when he lifted full buckets from the stream. How her mother, when bending, often clutched her back. Could they be ill? In pain?
She rose quickly, approached her parents’ room, opened the door just a crack. But they slumbered, their breaths even in the dark. A sigh of relief untangled in her chest.

But the sound continued, a cry keening but soft. Her brow furrowed, and she lit a candle. Her steps took her toward the door.

“Szeth?”

The name was gentle on her lips. She opened the door slowly, only enough to slip inside. She did not want to startle him.

The room was darker than the rest of their house. She did not see him, at first. Then, a groan once more, from the corner.

Szeth had not seen her enter, did not seem to have heard his name. He faced the corner, his frame taut and tense, his knees drawn to his chest. His head was clasped in his trembling hand.

The cry again, muffled, wrenching. A coil of concern wound tight in her gut. Quietly, carefully, she approached him, laid the candle on the floor. Sat beside him, not close, but near enough to reach out, to brush his back. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, the ghost of a touch.

He startled. His head jerked up and he turned, red-rimmed eyes wide. She withdrew her hand.

“I woke you,” he said, his voice hoarse and cracked. “I sincerely apologize.”

Masha’s heart twisted, an ache in her chest. Her eyes were gentle as she regarded him.

“You have no need to be sorry,” she said, her voice soft. She hoped it was a soothing tone.
“Are you in pain?”

“I am unhurt.”

He stood, limbs unfolding in a moment, raising himself with a smoothness that belied the tension in his frame.

His eyes fell on the candle. “You brought a light.” His voice was composed now, his face expressionless. He lowered his eyes.
“I am grateful.”

Masha could see his discomfort, the strain in his body. His eyes darted toward the door. Storms. She had been foolish. He did not want her company, did not want anyone to see his state. She rose, took a step back, lowering her eyes.

“Forgive my intrusion,” she said, finding herself matching his formal tone. “I just… I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I am well,” he said, his voice even, but strained. “I… thank you for your concern.”

Masha stepped back, opened the door. “You should rest,” she told him softly, then withdrew.

She heard no more cries that night, but she could not help but hear the sound of his steps on the floor - ten, then ten again, over and over, repeated like a rhythm. She laid awake almost til dawn.

The next night, when her parents had retired, Masha lit a candle again, walked to his room. She laid the dish beside his door, a pool of warm light in the shadows. As she walked away, she heard a sharp breath, a whisper.
She returned to her bed.

The next morning, after breakfast, her parents went to tend to the morning chores, and she opened the door, ready to follow them. But Szeth rose, stepped toward her, a question in his face, though his eyes sought the floor.

“Could… Could I inquire something of you? “

She paused. His speech, already more formal than custom required, was especially measured. He was nervous, she realized, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. She turned toward him, but kept her eyes lowered. She had seen how he rarely liked to meet another's gaze.

“Of course.” She weighted her voice with extra warmth. Perhaps it would put him at ease.

He hesitated, eyes scanning the wooden boards. “I would like to ask you. Why… Why did you bring the candle?”

He looked up, then, a furrow between his pale brows.

She paused. She must be cautious, here. She had seen how he closed himself off to anything that approached pity, becoming still, cold. If she told him the truth, would he see it as compassion? Or condescension?

“I wanted to help, “ she said simply, at last. “Night can bring… sorrows, sometimes. But sometimes a small thing can beat back the darkness. You should take it, if you can.”

He met her eyes then, something fragile in his gaze. He did not blink.

“You remind me of my friend,” he said finally, as his eyes lost their focus, as he turned his head.

His friend. The one whom he buried? Masha waited, the silence heavy, stretched. Questions crowded her mind, gathered on her tongue. But she waited, hearing only the soft click of a cremling across the floor. He would speak when he was ready.

“Kaladin often spoke like that,” Szeth murmured, at last. “He said… I deserved peace.”

“Your friend was wise,” Masha said, her own voice soft, matching his tone. “I did not know him, except for the stories. But I think… I know people are more than their legends. He seemed kind. I know you grieve his passing.”

Szeth shifted, moving his hand, wrapping it around his chest as if to grasp his other arm. He seemed almost surprised to find only air.

“He was like no one else,” Szeth said, his voice low. “He was…”

He paused, drew in a breath.

“He was my only friend.”

A thin beam shone through the window, the light warm against his skin. His head was still turned away, but his cheek glistened. She saw a drop fall from his chin.

Masha’s heart ached. She knew Szeth did not seek out touch - he seemed wary, watching the hugs she and her parents shared freely with a cautious expression, unreadable. But he was human, no matter how his training and life had suppressed him. In the span of a moment, her impulse overpowered her reserve. She reached out.

She took his hand.

Szeth stiffened, and Masha almost drew back. But his fingers tightened around her palm, his hand somehow warm in the morning chill, and when he bowed his head, his grasp grew tighter, his knuckles white. His grip held desperation.

She did not know what to say.

She was a scholar, a writer. She transcribed, but she also created, the alchemy of research unfolding history, events transmuted into a tale.

But she had never known grief, not like this. Her family was close, loving, connected to their community despite living farther from the town. When villagers died, Masha and her parents had attended their funerals, baked food to sustain the surviving loved ones, chopped wood and repaired homes for those for whom grief was too heavy. But she had never felt comfortable consoling. Never knew how to ease more than the body's burdens.

She did not even know if words should be said.

Suddenly, he seemed to lose strength, lowered himself to his knees. “I am sorry,” he said again, his voice a rough whisper. “I…”

He did not continue. His shoulders, usually so rigid, slumped. He also had no words.

But now Masha knew what to say. Szeth did not need solitude, in this moment. She could feel it in the way he clutched her hand, the way he had sought her reasons for bringing the light. When she spoke, her words were gentle.

“Maybe… maybe he need not be your only friend.”

Szeth raised his head, looked at her with something approaching wonder. But in a moment, his gaze fell.

“You know who I am,” he said. “You have heard what I've done, I am certain. Kaladin… he did change me. He taught me I was human. Told me I could choose. But the choices I have made…”

He paused, drew in a breath. Withdrew his hand.

“I am not one to befriend.”

She wanted to protest. If the Stormblessed himself had seen good in this man… he could not be beyond hope. But he was right that she did not know him, not yet. He needed time. He had to heal.

She nodded, and - just for a moment - put a hand on his shoulder.

She turned to walk outside, and he pulled himself to his feet, started back towards his room.

No.

She could not leave like this.

“Szeth?”

He turned, a question in his eyes.

“You don't need to be flawless to have friends.”

—--------

As soon as he was well enough, Szeth was eager to work. Her parents cautioned him, to rest, to not attempt too much before he was ready, but he chafed so much at remaining idle that finally, they relented.

He chopped wood, slowly at first, but growing in strength, wielding the axe with his remaining arm. He braced his shoulder against the plow, guiding it with his hand to dig deep furrows in the earth. Hauling water was initially difficult - his equilibrium was changed, and he often lost balance. Sometimes he spilled most of the pail’s contents while still in sight of the stream. But soon, he carried the buckets with a dancer's grace, one in his hand, another atop his shoulder.

Masha was grateful. With his help, the farm tasks were done faster, her parents’ burden lightened. Her own was eased, as well. She could spend more time in scholarship, could write in the daylight, so much brighter than the moon and a candle. She found herself smiling at him, when he sat at breakfast, each day. Found herself meaning it.

When, one day, her father asked him to tend the sheep while he went into town, Szeth had frozen mid-step, took in a quick breath that was almost a gasp. He had looked at her father with wide eyes. When he nodded, she could not read his face.

Later, Masha saw him walking the fields in the midst of the flock, his feet bare, an air of bewilderment in his steps. But his eyes were soft, his brow smooth. As he paused, combed fingers through a ewe’s thick fleece, a dreamlike expression passed over his face. For a moment, he looked almost at peace.

They talked now, sometimes, most often out in the fields, as both carried out their tasks. Masha spoke of her studies, found herself verbose in a way that before had spilled only from her pen. She talked of the puzzle of piecing history together, of her frustrations at a missing source, her pride in a truth unearthed. He was an intent listener, and seemed to truly consider her words. Even her parents, who listened to her declamations with love, but only mild interest, had not shown such attention.

Szeth himself spoke more rarely. Still, in the most ordinary moments, he would suddenly offer an observation on a tree's spreading roots, on the way the long grass changed color in the light. His sentences, spare, seemed lines of a poem. He looked at the land with perpetual wonder, reverent as if memorizing the features of a loved one's face. He had been gone for so long, Masha reminded herself. He had missed his homeland. Most of his life had been spent in the East.

She chose not to think on what he had done there.

The next new moon, before Szeth retired, Masha left four candles, unlit, a match by their side.

She waited til she saw their lights under his door before she knocked.

Szeth did not speak, and at first Masha thought he was asleep. But then, he appeared at the door. This time, his steps were soundless.

The room was brighter, a candle in each of its corners lending their comforting, flickering light. But Szeth looked somehow worse. His face was drawn, gray scars stark on skin even paler than usual, dark shadows under his eyes. Weariness clung like a cloak to his frame. The makeshift bed was still meticulously made. His clothes and belongings, always kept neat, were now out of sight. She noticed a bag by the pillow.

He thanked her for the candles - then walked, as if pulled, to the center of the room - in the midst of the deepest shadows. His mouth opened, then closed. He drew in a breath.

“I want you to meet someone,” he said at last, and she saw he held his sword by its sheath, his arm wrapped around it with an almost protective grip.

Masha blinked. Against reason, she scanned the room, the flame-lit corners, the night-dark center. No one was there.

“Thank you! Finally! It's about time, Szeth,” said an almost cheerful voice, the sound not in her ears, but somehow… in her thoughts?

She stepped back - she could not help it. Was this a spren? A splinter of the gods? Her eyes grew wide, even as Szeth’s eyes softened as he regarded the sword.

“This is Nightblood.”

The direction of the shadows that steamed from the sheath changed, blowing now towards the door. Masha could almost believe it was looking at her.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” the sword said. “You know, it wasn't kind to tell her Kaladin was your only friend.” The voice was reproachful. “I was right here, after all.”

“I am sorry, sword-nimi,” Szeth said, his expression almost fond as he set down the sword. “I did not know yet…”

“How she'd respond to a talking sword, true.”

The sword - Nightblood? - seemed to shimmer, its voice flashing amusement. But then, its tone turned sober.

“Listen,” it said, to Masha this time. “I asked him to finally introduce me, because I need someone on my side. Szeth is about to make a very bad decision.”

Masha’s thoughts spun with confusion, but her scholar's mind soon flipped to observation, conjecture. And curiosity - always that. His sword could talk, could speak into minds. But it was not a shardblade, which could only reach its bearer. Somehow, this sword was alive. Had the Everstorm awakened it? Had this been a consequence of the explosion that had shaken the land, darkened the sky? Stormlight no longer worked - the spheres had all gone dark. What else had changed?

Then, she registered Nightblood’s words.

“What are you thinking?,” she said, her gaze finally leaving the sword to fix upon Szeth, her brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Szeth lowered his eyes. Absently, his fingers grasped his empty sleeve, twisted a thread in his hand.

“I have to leave,” he said at last. “Your family - you've been so kind to me. But I am healed, now. I should not impose when there is no longer need.”

He fell silent, as if the matter was ended. He began to walk toward the bed, to lift the full satchel.

Masha looked at him, eyebrows raised. Her foot twitched against the floor.

“Wait,” she said, her tone more stern than she wanted to sound.

He stopped in his tracks, let the bag collapse once again to the floor.

“You can't just leave.” Masha felt heat rise in her face, felt her eyes narrow, her jaw grow tight. With effort, she loosened it, ashamed. “I mean, you can. Of course. You can choose. But - Szeth, why?”

She stared at him, bewilderment etched in her face. She felt something else rising, too.

Hurt?

He did not speak, for a moment, and Masha recognized his expression, the crease in his brow. He was contemplating. Being careful. Measuring his words.

“I have no place here,” he said simply, his voice steady, tight. Dry earth before a storm.

Guilt twisted in Masha’s chest. Had they made him feel unwelcome? She had sometimes failed to speak to him, when he passed. She had wanted to respect his reserve. Had he taken it to heart? Her parents often conversed in whispers. Did he fear they spoke in judgment?

“You do have a place,” Masha protested, as her hand found his arm, lingered. His skin was too cold, in the warm season’s air. “We are grateful you are here, truly. You've not stayed too long. You've helped us, too, repaid us ten times over. Not that you needed to repay. We… want you here, Szeth. This…” She paused, met his eyes. “Maybe it could be home?”

She cut off her words, her face flushed, gaze finding the ground. Had she said too much?

Szeth studied her, unblinking. His face did not move, but his eyes held conflict, a flash of hope. His lips parted to speak - but then, he lowered his head.

“No,” he said finally. His voice was almost a whisper. He fell silent.

Shadows surged around Nightblood in almost panicked flares. “Szeth! Why not? You did say you'd stay in Shinovar, teach the people, show the truth. Why can't you do that here?”

“Because I subtract!”

The words tore from his throat, a rasp.

“I shouldn't find peace with those who add.”

“Szeth?”

Nightblood’s voice was small. “Remember what Kaladin said? You deserve…”

“I don't.” The words were clipped, low. A gavel’s fall. When he spoke again, it was to the ground.

“Kaladin… Was kind. But I don't know if he's right, anymore. I don't know if… if I can be right. ”

He closed his eyes.

“All I've wanted was to know what was right.”

Szeth’s voice was soft, fragile as a child's. He stared at the candle, unblinking, the fingers of his remaining hand curling and uncurling, knotting in his lap. His breath was shallow.

Masha watched him, an ache in her chest. This was not - had never been, truly - the fabled assassin, the shadow-borne shaper of history. This man - deadly and gentle, this stranger turned friend - he was lost.

“I think… “

Masha stopped, her own voice too loud in the taut silence. Szeth did not look at her. Her hand hovered, close to his shoulder, then fell. She could not waste this chance with ill-considered words. Could not refute his pain.

So she held a breath, untangled her thoughts. When she spoke, her voice was low, her words sheared to a sentence.

“I don't think you meant to subtract.”

Szeth stiffened. He held himself still, his head bowed. His voice was taut, brittle.

“It does not matter.”

Storms. What could she say? What would reach him? She breathed out through her nose, resisting the urge to claw a hand through her hair.
She had to be careful, like in the beginning, like their days between had never passed. The man before her held the rigid pose of a spooked sheep, limbs frozen. He seemed equally ready to run or to fall.

Cautiously, she shifted, her movement slow, so he would not startle. Lowering herself from the chair to the floor, tucking her legs under her dress, she sat by his side. In the dark, the splash of yellow on her hem looked gray.

Szeth held himself still, his eyes fixed on the candle, but Masha heard his slight intake of breath, saw the tremor that passed through his shoulders. For a long moment, he sat in silence.

“I cannot atone.”

She almost startled. She had not expected him to speak again. But she did not turn her head, did not move. She waited, her eyes on the light that pooled from the flame. The shadows it stirred.

“I am not a thing. Kaladin told me that. And… it’s true.”

His voice was brittle. “I'm not a thing, so I… I chose. I chose to kill so many. I know now, I /know/ that I was not truthless, I did not have to follow the holders of my oathstone. But that truth… it makes it all so much worse.”

He shivered. His one arm curled around his body, his hand clutching his opposite shoulder as he drew his knees to his chest. His eyes stared ahead.

“I hear their screams, when it is dark.”

Masha’s eyes widened, and she drew in a breath. Was that why…?
Storms.
That was why he needed the candle.

“They were not as loud, before. Kaladin helped me quiet them. But now, since… since the storm… it is like it used to be. They press in, howl, shriek. They are in pain.”
His voice cracked.
“They are always in pain.”

The candle wavered, and Masha blinked, closed her eyes. Saw its stark afterimage, blue behind her lids.

“Everyone I slew was a friend to someone. Each one was to someone what Kaladin was to me. To take even one of those lives would be tragic. To take hundreds… “
He paused, his throat working.
“It is unforgivable.”

Masha’s heart lurched. Her eyes stung. This burden - she could not imagine. If anything happened to her family, even the peaceful death of age, she would be crushed with guilt. But Szeth carried so much more, the weight of thousands. If this was the fate of those who subtract…

She shuddered.

The guards of Shinovar. She had never realized. They bore this pain on their behalf, for people like her family. To keep them safe.

Hadn't Szeth, in a way, done the same?

“You saved people, too,” she whispered. Her voice did not shake. “The kings - I've read of their rule. Many of them were corrupt. They killed too, Szeth. It was not only you. Maybe… Perhaps you prevented more death.”

A burst of air escaped his lips. A scoff? A sigh?

“I would like to believe that,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Maybe I could, if I had slain only the rulers. But there were more, so many under their command. So many lives to cut through like grass, before I even reached the kings.”

He covered his face with his hand, bent his head to his knees.

“I want to choose a better path. I swore to cause no more pain. But what I have already done - I must bear it.”

His next words, a whisper buried in his palm, were almost too soft to hear.

“But I don't know how.”

Masha had no more words. She did not know how to help. But she shifted closer to his shaking form. Lifted a hand, then two. Her arms encircled his frame, pulled him close. Held him.

Szeth broke.

He trembled violently, as if he would shake apart. Tears spilled from his eyes, fell on her shoulders. He clung to her, back bowed, and fought for breath. His ribs felt hollowed under her hands, as if his lungs had been scooped from his chest.

She held him, and ached. What could she do in the face of this pain? Her mind spun, and frustration burned through her.

/You study saviors,/ her thoughts reproached. /Yet you cannot even help your suffering friend./

Tears formed in her eyes, as she tightened her embrace. Szeth wept, his shoulders tense and heaving, his head now bowed against her chest.

Through blurred eyes, she saw Nightblood’s shadows waver, a helplessness in their haze. She shot the sword a panicked glance. Did it know how to help?

Then its voice, in her mind, its anxious whisper. “I’m not sure what to do. It's been months since he's been like this. But… I think this is helping. Keep hugging him,” Nighblood urged, voice almost pleading. “He needs it.”

So Masha pulled him closer, and he did not resist. As she held him, his tears continued to flow, but slowly, some of the tension slipped from his shoulders, and his trembling started to ease.

So much grief. Masha had been often praised by her mentors for her ability to empathize with all figures of history, to follow the channels of their thoughts and trace their motivations, their strategies, their flaws. But her mind could not encompass this - not only the pain of a friend's ending, but the torment of being the cause of so many deaths himself. Subtraction leached life from one's own soul, the Farmer always said. Every harm cut into one's own heart.

Could such wounds heal?

Masha searched the histories in her mind. Most leaders who chose violence were destroyed by their own actions, she knew. If not through retaliation from enemies, than from the slow creep of corruption, or complacence with decay. But there was one account - the one she was working on, painstakingly translating it from the spidery Alethi hand. Bearer of Vows?

The king of Alethkar. Particularly warlike, even for his hawkish people. He had slain thousands in ceaseless wars, set cities ablaze in screams. He had fought as if drunk on blood, and drank to escape his own battles.
But according to his own account - corroborated by other scholars - he had transformed. Stopped harming, and began to help. The Alethi had never been so - diplomatic before. Never reached out beyond their borders without grasping, greedy hands, never considered the plight of their own people. But now?

“Dalinar,” Nightblood said helpfully.

Masha almost jumped. She knew it could speak in her mind - but it could hear her thoughts, as well? Pushing down the unease, she sent a silent question to the sword.

“It's Dalinar you're thinking of - and he's Szeth’s hero,” Nightblood offered, a hopeful note in his voice. “Oooh, yes, tell him about Dalinar! That will help!”

“Szeth,” Masha said softly.

He did not seem to hear her. She pulled back, moved a palm, carefully stroking his back. “Szeth?”

Szeth looked up as if startled, red-rimmed eyes meeting hers for only a moment before dropping his gaze.

“I… I am sorry, “ he started, but Masha moved her hands to his shoulders, shaking her head.

“No, you've done nothing wrong.”

She paused, realizing with awkwardness what she had said. Her words stumbled.

“I mean, you have - but Szeth, so have we all. Even in the histories. Nightblood says you know the Alethi king, Dalinar.”

Szeth nodded, slowly. Looked up, a questioning line between his brows.

“Do you know his past? What he wrote in his tome?”

“He is a man of Honor,” Szeth said softly. His voice seemed scraped, raw. “I swore to follow him, before I found my own law. He is admirable. A leader worth following. He bears truth well.”

“Do you know what he did, though? Before he found honor?

“Not all,” Szeth said, his words slow, as if emerging from sleep. “But… he stood against Odium, alone, and did not break. He would not fall.”

“He subtracted,” Masha said, her voice even, intent. “He slew thousands, in careless brutality - and not only soldiers, but also the peaceful, those who lived only to add.”
She looked at Szeth, gaze steady.
“He even killed his wife.”

It was a long moment before he answered.

“I… did not know, not all of it,” Szeth said. “But, when he conquered Odium, the words he spoke… “
He paused, recollecting.

“I will take responsibility for what I have done. If I must fall, I will rise each time a better man.”

The words were Dalinar’s, but as they left Szeth’s lips, he seemed to take them in. His eyes filled again, and more tears fell. But the lines on his brow had softened. He no longer trembled, but sat in thoughtful stillness.

Masha’s hand found his. Her voice was soft.

“You did subtract. I know… I know that cannot change. But, Szeth - if a man who burned hundreds can add again… can't you?”

Szeth took in a deep, shuddering breath, closed his eyes. Masha saw the stiffness melt from his shoulders.

“Perhaps.”

The moment stretched on, measured in breaths. When Masha thought he would speak no more, he opened his mouth - and his eyes.

“Kaladin told me of warrior thoughts,” Szeth said. “To combat the dark. He said not to give up my life, that I am here for a purpose. But… I wish I could ask him what I should do.”

When she spoke, Masha’s voice matched his whisper.

“If you could… “ She paused, gently brushed a thumb across his hand. “What do you think he'd say?”

The sound that escaped Szeth was not quite a laugh, not quite a groan. Something in between.

“He'd say that he couldn't tell me,” Szeth said. The ghost of a smile flickered on his lips, disappeared. “He'd tell me I must decide for myself.”

He shook his head.
“But he said something else, too. Something I'd like to believe. He said…”

Szeth swallowed, his throat tight.

“He said I deserve to be happy.”

Masha smiled at him. This time, she did not have to reach for warmth.

“I think you do, Szeth.” Her voice was soft, gentle. “And I think - I think you can find some peace here. Perhaps even, someday - maybe you might find joy.”

“I don't know if I can - if I should,”
Szeth whispered.

His eyes met hers, and the crease smoothed on his brow.

“But I will try.”

—--------------

Epilogue - one year later
—------------

Masha woke to a cry outside the window.

She had only just gone to bed, having studied til late. But she startled awake, shrugged on a shawl, grabbed a candle. She slipped through the door. But she was not alone - Szeth followed, his steps almost silent. Sensing his presence, a fraction of her worry eased.

“The barn,” he said, his voice low. “She's still lambing.”

Masha’s eyes widened. The ewe had started that evening, bleating and pushing. It should have given birth by now. Masha quickened her pace, reached the door. It groaned open under her hand.

The ewe was straining, wool matted with sweat, eyes white in her head. Her forelegs were down, her back legs raised. Her stomach bulged, something angular pushing outwards from her side. Her bleat was shrill, keening.

She bent down, ran a hand lightly across its abdomen. Winced as she felt the shape.

“There's more than one,” she told Szeth, worry sharp in her throat. “I… I think they're turned wrong. They're stuck.”

Szeth knelt silently, settling his hand on the ewe’s wool.
“We’re here,” he said to the sheep, voice gentle, a balm. She was still straining, still wild-eyed, but her plaintive bleats softened. She seemed almost calm under his touch.

He washed his arm in a pail, scrubbed his hand with leaf ash. Kaladin had taught him that, Masha remembered. He had said it barred rotspren.
Carefully, soothing the sheep with soft words, Szeth reached under her hooves, slid his hand inside.
There.
He felt one lamb’s legs, the head nowhere near the opening. Felt more than four limbs.

“Large twins,” he murmured. “They're tangled.”

Masha cursed under her breath. “There's no time to get the healer,” she whispered, her voice tight. “The last time this happened… We lost her.”

“She will not die,” Szeth said, his voice sure, concentration wrinkling his brow. “I will see what I can do.”

He felt inside the ewe - he would be trying to determine which legs belonged to each lamb, Masha knew. Which to deliver first. After several moments, he hummed a note of relief through his nose.

“I have it,” he said. Masha watched as his arm moved in deeper, tendons taut as he tried to untangle the lambs. As he slowly, a fraction at a time, started to draw one out.

“This one is breech,” he murmured. “It must come out first.”

The process was long, but Szeth was patient, whispering assurances to the ewe as he moved. Slowly, with careful adjustment and more careful pulls on its back legs, the first lamb came free. It was still, eyes closed, soaked through with birthing fluids. For a moment, Masha worried it was dead. But Szeth brought his hand to the lamb's eye, softly touched the corner. It blinked twice, then bleated. Masha let out a breath.

Szeth’s brow was still furrowed, his eyes focused, intent.
“The other will be easier,” he said. “It is forward, and the legs are in place.”

Taking a cloth, Masha wiped the birthing fluid from the lamb’s face, making sure it could breathe freely. As she tucked the blinking lamb next to the ewe, the other slid out - two feet, then a head. The ewe relaxed, falling limp in exhaustion, but lifted her head to nuzzle the lambs beside her.

Masha laughed in relief. She grabbed his hand, uncaring of the sludge and birthing blood. “Szeth, you did it,” she said, her smile and eyes both wide with wonder. “You saved them. All of them.”

Szeth did not speak, but he squeezed her hand, stared down at his own, slicked red with blood.

“I… can add,” he said softly, almost in disbelief.

He looked up, met her gaze with glistening eyes. Repeated the words, now more surety in his voice, lifting their clasped hands as tears trailed down his cheeks. Masha drew him close, touched his forehead with hers.

“You can add,” Masha whispered, as her own tears fell. She closed her eyes in relief, and opened them to see the most beautiful sight she could have imagined.

For the first time since she'd known him, joy lit his face.

Szeth was smiling.

Chapter Text

(One more year later)

A sound led Masha from the house. Most evenings, nothing short of the everstorm could pry her from her studies, but this was too intriguing to ignore.

The voice was unmistakably Szeth's, carrying from the pen where he had been gathering the sheep for the night. Masha’s steps quickened, the evening dew cool against her feet as she made her way across the field. The sound grew stronger, a melody, haunting.

Szeth… was singing?

His voice continued, a low, clear tone that slid through notes like a flute played by expert hands. Every now and then, a light rasp crept into the end of a phrase, and the sound broke for an instant, then resumed. The words were strange - Masha was fairly fluent in reading Alethi, but had never heard it spoken. The words flew by too quickly for her to catch their meaning.

Masha stepped closer, mesmerized, curious. The song stopped. She blinked, and Szeth had turned toward her, a slight flush tinting his face.

“I'm sorry,” he started, but his words cut off as Masha took his hand, smiling warmly.

“How many times have I told you?”

She cuffed him gently on the shoulder, and he smiled. He met her touch easily now, so far from his early timidity. But his anxiety, the way he leapt to remorse? That was harder to heal.

“You don't need to apologize for everything you do. Especially not… for that. It was beautiful.” Her eyes shone. “I didn't know you sang.”

“I don't, not often.” He ducked his head slightly in embarrassment. “But… it was something Kaladin taught me.”

Masha nodded encouragingly.

“He didn't sing.” Szeth laughed softly, shaking his head at her unspoken question. “Music was not a natural talent, for him. But when nights were difficult, and talking didn't help…he helped me breathe. From here -” he touched his abdomen - not here.” His hand had moved to his chest.
“He said something about the air, how drawing breath from below helped the lungs fill more deeply.”

“Interesting.” Masha’s eyes brightened with curiosity. “But how did he know?”

“His father was a surgeon. He taught him to heal the body. And his mother… he said she showed him how breath can heal the mind. She said it was easier, to practice it through song. When Kaladin told me, and I tried it… it helped.”

“It's been over a year, and I still keep learning more about you.”
A smile played on her lips.
“What was the song?”

A sheep chose that moment to butt against her leg, bleating plaintively, and both Szeth and Masha laughed as he gave it a pat, guiding it through the gate. Closing it, he ran a hand over the wood.

“They call them keteks.”

Szeth gazed toward the sky, remembering.

“Poetry that echoes itself, like a reflection in a pond. Like a breath, drawn in, then out.”

Masha found herself mirroring the motion, inhaling slowly through her nose, then exhaling, softly. She leaned back against the fence.
“The ketek you sang… what did it mean?”

“An invocation, of a kind. Against fear.”
His brow furrowed as he reviewed the song, mentally translating the words.

“Fear the still, who withdraw, don't fight. Fight - don't withdraw.
Still the fear.”

Masha felt her own brow crease as she mused. “Fascinating. And so Alethi, always writing of war. Was it meant to inspire soldiers before a battle?”

“It was.”
Szeth frowned, then his expression softened.
“But Kaladin said it could be about warrior thoughts, as well. The ones that don't kill, but heal, fighting the darkness.”

Masha squeezed his hand. “It's about adding, then.”

Szeth blinked, then smiled, relaxing his shoulders. Through the fence, a sheep nudged at his hand, and he stroked its head.
“I suppose it can be. ”

“Poetry is what the listener brings, as much as what the writer penned,” Masha said.

Szeth hummed in agreement. “That sounds like a quote.”

Masha gave him an impish smile.
“You don't think I could have come up with that myself?”

“I… No! I have only the highest respect for your schol-” At Szeth's anxious expression, Masha laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder, dropping the playfulness as she fixed her eyes on his.
“Szeth, I know. Don't worry. I was teasing… Though, not very well, I think.”

She offered an apologetic half-smile, and Szeth returned it, lifting his hand from hers to brush back a snag of her windblown hair. She leaned into his touch, her smile returning.

“And, you were right. It is a quote!” Masha grinned. “Now that the spanreeds are working again, I'm finally catching up on all the scholarship I've been missing. That one, a friend of Rushu’s sent me. She studies literature, and has just started exploring Singer poetry. She’s using “What the Listener Brings” as her working title. Rushu thought I'd like the pun.”

“And the truth behind it.”

Szeth's eyes flickered with thought, warm green against the darkening sky.

“Do you… know any poems from the Listeners?”

Masha made a sound of surprise.

“Are you interested in poetry?”

She squeezed his arm in excitement.
“I don't know nearly enough about it, but I can ask Rushu, she can send updates on her friends' work while she's piecing it together, and… oh.”

She paused. Szeth's gaze was on the ground, his shoulders pulled close to his body. It was how he held himself when guilt was heavy.

It hadn't been poetry he had been intrigued by. He was thinking of the Listeners.

She took his arm, guided him to the nearby bench where the milk pails sat, wooden buckets streaked dark with dew.
He sat, gracefully as always - but slowly, with weighted limbs. Masha joined him, sat close by his side. His body was warm against the evening air.

“I did not understand them, when they told me I must kill the king. But I was accustomed to not knowing the reasons behind the orders I was given. If the stone had directed me there, that was where I would be of use. Understanding was not necessary.”

He sighed softly.

“And later? When I saw that most of it had been without purpose? Just petty vengeance, or greed, or twisted philosophy? Even those who claimed it had been for a reason -”

Szeth broke off, and his brows drew in, further shadowing his eyes. Masha knew he spoke of Taravangian.

“I wanted to understand those least of all.”

Masha slid closer to him on the bench, wound one arm around his shoulders. With the other, she took his hand, her voice soft. “But the Listeners were different.”

Szeth looked at her, eyes grateful for what she'd known without words. He relaxed, slightly, into her touch.

“I didn't consider it, then… but now, I wonder their reasons. You've told me how their will was taken.” He shifted on the wooden bench. “How our people tried to stop their forms of power - and, so doing, stole their souls.”

“Some still say it's a legend,” Masha said. “But there have been accounts, from Singers who were the historians of their kind. They wrote very little, you know.” Her eyes were bright with excitement. “But they record their knowledge in song - all their history, their philosophy, their culture. Such memories they have - it's astounding.” She shook her head. “If we had kept history, that way - from the beginning, from when we first came to this world, before we had set up any settlements, before we had been able to move beyond simple survival and start to record our history - how much more would we know? How many of the ancients’ secrets would have been ours, even through the Desolations?”

“How many lives would never have been lost?”
Szeth's words were soft, his gaze pensive. Guilt tinged his tone, but his posture was still, contemplative.
“We would remember those who have been forgotten.”

Masha squeezed his hand again. She smiled at him, briefly, encouraging.
“Are you sure you were a Skybreaker?” she asked.
“You might have been an Edgedancer, with those words.”

A smile flickered on Szeth's lips. “Someone taught them to me.” His eyes grew soft, fond. “A wise child. She saved me, once.”

Masha hummed in affirmation, settling her arm around his shoulders again, resting her head against his shoulder.
“I'm glad.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, Masha’s feet swung slightly as she sat. Szeth closed his eyes, his hand stroking her hair.

“Szeth?”

“Yes?”

“Would you… sing the ketek, again? I'd like to hear it, now that I know more.”

Szeth nodded assent, and, eyes still closed, began to sing again. His voice was fuller this time, though softer - resonant, warm. When he finished the battle ketek, he continued with another ketek, one that sounded new. Masha closed her eyes, puzzling out the Alethi words.

“Would you like to hear its meaning?”

“Wait. I want to try to make it out myself. Keep singing, and I'll try.”

Szeth did, voice slowing just slightly, lingering on long notes at the ends of words. Giving her time to translate.

The dead remember.
They scream, fall. Cry out.
A clamor, an outcry.
“Fall!” they scream.
Remember the dead.

Masha touched his arm. In the starlight, her eyes shone a dark gold, lit with concern.

“Szeth.”

Szeth's last note trailed into the dark, and she held her breath, encircled by silence.
After a long moment, he sighed, and, almost unconsciously, she exhaled with him.

“It's all right.”
He leaned in, taking her clasped hands in his, his thumb caressing her skin.

“It’s true. This was… What it was like. But the man who wrote it was Dalinar. We shared a common burden.”

“His dead haunted him, too?”

Szeth nodded.

“He burned glyphs for them, sometimes. Prayers, though he didn't believe in the gods, anymore.”

Masha tilted her head. “But in Alethi culture, aren't-”

“Glyphs are usually burned by women, there, yes. But Dalinar made his own rules.”
Szeth's expression was almost fond.

“It was one of those nights, when I guarded him. The room was too dark, and the candle went out. He bade me light another, to burn the ward, but I couldn't seem to make it ignite. And the walls were too close, and the dead… were restive.”

Masha’s hand found his shoulder.

“He noticed my discomfort, and pressed me - I did not want to tell. But he was insistent - and when I told him, he said he heard them too. He would not reveal any more. But when the candle lit, and the glyphward started to burn, he told me to touch the sheet, that we should lay it down together. Said a commander's prayer could stand for his soldiers’, too.”

Masha nodded, and continued to stroke his shoulder, the pressure gentle against his skin. “Was he often so kind?”

Szeth looked at her, soberly. “It might sound strange, but… I did not want him to be. He was my leader, the model I'd sworn to emulate. I would have had him remain a statue, an immovable hero.”

“Another kind of stone to follow.”

Szeth’s lips parted at her words, and he drew in a breath.

“You are wise.”

She smiled, and brushed a leaf from his sleeve. “I might say you're the wiser, how you see meaning in everyone's words.”

His eyes crinkled in response. “Right now, I may not be so. I've forgotten our dinner.”

Masha laughed, shrugging. “Up until this moment, so did I.” She made to rise, but felt a slight tug on her arm. She looked back, and Szeth's hand held the fabric of her sleeve.

“Maybe…let's not go, yet. This is… peaceful, out here, with you.”

The night had settled to the ground, darker than the everstorm during the day. Stars shone faintly through the gloom, as if peeking through the weave of a cloth. But the sky was almost black, so dark Masha could not see the flush she knew had risen on Szeth's face, and she looked at him in wonder. He'd never before welcomed the night.

“It's quieter, now,” he said, softly. “They still whisper. They'll always be there. But, with you?”

He paused, swallowed, took her hand.

“You're… a candle. You hold back the dark.”

A warmth spread through Masha’s chest.
Impulsively, she hugged him, arms tight around his chest. She closed her eyes, smiling against his shoulder.
“We’ll wait for the sun together.”

—--

In the end, she’d gone back to the house, just briefly. Her parents had long been asleep, but they'd left out the loaf of bread, and fresh sheep's-milk cheese, so she'd wrapped it in a scarf and bundled quilts into her arms. They sat atop one, the other draped around their shoulders. Szeth's arm encircled Masha’s back, and she leaned into him, her hands holding his. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper.

“Does this mean you've decided?”

Szeth drew his arm closer around her. For a moment, he didn't speak - but the rise and fall of his chest matched hers. She could not see his face, but she felt his smile in the relaxation of his shoulders, in his hand, warm in hers. In his words, soft, almost shy - but sure.

“Yes. If you'll have me…”

His pause was Masha’s held breath, his words her soft sigh of relief, of joy.

“I want to stay.”