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Kaladin stands alone on the long, white slope, breathing hard. His lungs feel greedy; the air is thin this high. He readjusts the strap of the impromptu sledge, looking back at Adolin's still form. The bleeding has stopped, but Kaladin knows killing wounds. He feels fear settle on his shoulders, heavier than the sledge, colder than the mountain air.
“Not so far to go,” Syl lies. Kaladin nods, eyes straining for the green land that Rock promised lies at the top of these peaks. He re-shoulders his burden.
Not a burden. Adolin.
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Time slips away from him and Kaladin feels rough stubble on his chin. That night he sharpens a knife, trying to shave by feel. Adolin laughs, but his laughter turns to coughs. He wears the ring she gave him on a chain around his neck. His fever-bright eyes close and he lapses back into a half-sleep. Adolin’s beard is coming in too, blonde speckled with black.
A memory rises unbidden: Adolin with a beard, standing in the prison hallway, a wry smile on his face. Talking to Kaladin as if going to prison for him was something anyone would do. As if he’d done it gladly. As if--
Kaladin turns his thoughts back to this endless mountain and Adolin as he is now: cheeks unhealthily flushed, lips cracked from the dry air, leg fractured in more places than he cares to think about. His body is becoming a prison here on the mountain. If only Kaladin could do for Adolin as he did for him, and share the pain.
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Adolin is better today. Kaladin's mood lightens as he tells him stories of his childhood. Kaladin learns his mother's name: Evi. Adolin speaks in Iriali for him and Kaladin finds himself mesmerized by the musical tones of the language.
“I didn't know you spoke Iriali.”
“No one knows, except you. And Renarin. My father...never approved.”
Kaladin's body aches for a little stormlight. A useless wish.
“Your turn,” Adolin says, voice carried away on the wind. “I need something to think about other than this damn leg.” Kaladin hears pain under his lightness.
“Has anyone ever taught you anatomy?”
“A couple people.” Adolin laughs then falls silent as he realizes Kaladin is serious.
“It's easier with illustrations, but I'll try,” Kaladin says, starting to pull the sledge again.
He teaches Adolin the muscles and bones of his hands, has him repeat back the words. Adolin stumbles at first over the unfamiliar words but by evening he has a passable grasp of them, rolling his fingers and wrist as if he’s never seen them before.
Metatarsal. Tarsometatarsal joint. Navicular bone.
The familiar words provide a rhythm to their endless march.
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He walks, and he remembers:
Kaladin leaves the celebration, the noise rising as the night lengthens. Adolin and Shallan will leave for the bridal bed soon. He does not wish to be here for that.
He feels the cooler air flow past him and breathes deeply, begins walking aimlessly.
“Bridgeboy!” It’s Adolin, collar unbuttoned against the heat of the room. He stands at the door, looks both ways until he spots Kaladin and stalks over to him. There must be two hundred people in there. Why can he not leave Kaladin alone?
“Congratulations,” Kaladin says as Adolin stands in front of him. It is the only thing he trusts himself to say. Adolin waves his hand dismissively, to show Kaladin what he thinks of his congratulations. He sees from the way that Adolin is standing that he is drunk.
“Why are you leaving early? Aren't you happy for me?”
“Of course I am. Now go, your guests are expecting you.” Kaladin turns away. This is not a conversation he wants to have. Adolin grabs his hand, pulls him back until they are standing face to face. He doesn’t let go and Kaladin feels the ring that Shallan slipped on his finger. It feels smooth and heavy like a stone in his palm. Up close, Adolin’s eyes are the color of a sunny sky.
“You're not happy for me, I can tell. You need to be happy.” As Adolin says these last words he sways a little on his feet. Kaladin catches him under his arms and slides him down to the floor, sitting him against the wall.
“I need you to be happy for me.” Adolin says it so quietly that Kaladin almost doesn't hear him. Kaladin brushes Adolin's hair from his face.
“I will be” he says, confident that Adolin will not remember in the morning. “I will be happy for you, Adolin Kholin, when you are happy for yourself.” He stands and waves at Skar and Drehy, who have just emerged from the feast, clearly looking for Adolin. Kaladin doesn't look back as he walks away.
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Adolin’s cheekbones lie more prominently in his face. Kaladin feels his own body consuming itself as they walk. He thinks of Fleet; he wonders if this a race he will finish as a ghost.
Kaladin checks Adolin’s wound. Besides the fractures, which he has already set, there is a jagged slice up Adolin's leg, running from his knee almost to his groin. Kaladin hears Adolin grinding his teeth as as he touches the still-raw flesh; his small surgeon's kit is empty and tonight he sees rotspren along the wound.
Adolin is out of time.
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Kaladin lies awake and thinks of his the spheres in his pack, now lying buried in the snow thousands of feet below. He thinks of the other spheres in his pouch, cut away by a lucky swing from one of the Voidbringers.
He remembers the dread as the Voidbringers came flying out of the dark. He thinks of the desperate dive he made, lashing himself again and again towards Adolin’s falling form, the Voidbringers blocking his way, a red-eyed challenge. He sees Rock, the lead on their diplomatic mission, falling with two other Voidbringers veering after him.
He opens his eyes, but it’s too late, and the vision continues, showing him Adolin lying broken, crimson blood staining the snow.
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Syl leads him to an overhang. It's early and Kaladin can see the sun’s bright ring around the rim of the world. He can still hear Adolin's curses ringing in his ears after he explained his plan.
He nods to Syl, who becomes an enormous blade. He looks down the slope, but their camp has disappeared in the brightness. As the sun’s rays crest the slope, Kaladin throws a rock in the cave below.
The whitespine surges out, but is momentarily blinded by the sun. Kaladin dives, untethered by earth or lashings, his silhouette bright against the light. And then he is driving Syl into the whitespine, its sinuous body turning on him even as he rips down its side. He pays the price as he feels a spine splinter inside him, scraping across his ribs. The whitespine has him in its mouth before he hits the ground, teeth grinding against his leg. He feels it relaxing, getting ready to feed. It must be wily, to have survived so far up, but it has never met prey like Kaladin Stormblessed.
Roaring with defiance, he swings Syl in a killing stroke, and the head of the whitespine drops to the ground, Kaladin's leg still trapped in its the clenched jaw. Everytime he moves he can feel the spine inside him grate against bones. His legs are a mess of broken bones and flesh.
He notices how beautiful the ice under his hands is, silver flecked with white in the morning light. He sees his hands, covered with purple blood and he flexes the fingers. He knows it's shock; recognizes it in a distant way.
“Kaladin!” Syl draws him back from the brink, then becomes a blade again. His angle is bad, but he manages to cut into the carcass, pulling himself into the beast and returning, bloodied but triumphant, the gemheart in his hand as bright as the morning sun. He breathes in.
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They are near a lake the color of garnets, the steam rising from its surface each night as the sun sets. They share a blanket as the nights pass in this haven among the peaks. Kaladin wishes for more, but he is acutely aware of Adolin’s dependence on him, still healing, unable to fly. He will have Adolin freely, or not at all.
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Adolin is recovering, but his face is too thin and has new lines. It makes him look a little more like Dalinar. His beard is full now, and he sits propped beneath a tree, summoning and dismissing his blade in the afternoon sun. In his other hand he rolls his ring around his palm, over and over.
Kaldin watches the ring and Adolin meets his eyes and pockets it self-consciously.
“Why don’t you wear it?” Kaladin asks.
“Couldn’t get used to it. And I had to take it off for sparring. Seemed easier this way.” Kaladin nods.
“We should leave tomorrow.”
“I'm not ready.”
“As your surgeon, I say you are.”
Adolin laughs sourly.
“Surgeon, captain, windrunner. Is there anything you aren't?”
I'm not yours Kaladin thinks.
“She...they will be worried.”
Adolin nods and mutters, “Why do you always have to be storming right?”
“Why do you have to always storming fight me?”
“It’s not always good to get your way.”
“Says the light-eyed princeling.”
“Storm it, Kaladin, that’s not--”
But Kaladin is already walking away.
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Kaladin stares into the flames, feeling unexpected sorrow that they will leave this place tomorrow.
“I'm sorry--” he starts, but doesn't finish because suddenly Adolin is kissing him, softly at first and then with more passion. Kaladin responds and Adolin pushes him backward on the ground, sliding a hand up his leg. Kaladin feels himself stirring at his touch, heart racing. He reaches up to Adolin’s shirt, unbuttoning it, running a hand along his chest.
His fingers find cold metal and the chain falls out of Adolin's shirt, the ring between them catching the light of the fire. Adolin tries to push it back, but Kaladin takes his hand, even though he aches to continue. He kneels and puts his hands on either side of Adolin’s face.
“I would have you, Adolin Kholin,” he says, “whole and entire. Not in stolen moments that leave a trail of broken oaths.”
“I love her,” Adolins whispers, as if to himself. “But not like I should. Not like I…. Not like...with you.”
His unspoken words hang in the air between them. Kaladin puts his forehead against Adolin’s.
“I know.” He sees the tears slip from Adolin’s eyes and he kisses them away. “I know.” He kisses his neck, his ear, runs his hand through his hair. There is so much of Adolin he wants to explore.
“My father--”
“Your father is a heretic who married his brother’s wife and whose other son is bonded to a voidspren.” Kaladin laughs, a gentle sound.
He takes Adolin's hand, tracing his palm, feeling his calluses under his fingers.
“I will not make you tell anyone if you are not ready. But know that I will not share you, Adolin.” Adolin’s eyes are bright with tears as Kaladin gathers him in his arms and kisses him, one more time, slow and soft. “I will be happy,” he says, “when you are happy for yourself.”
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As they walk out of the oathgate at Urithiru, Adolin’s arm over his shoulder, Kaladin sees Dalinar and Renarin and Shallan running full tilt towards them, paced overhead by bridge four.
Renarin is the first to reach them, grabbing Adolin in a hug. Kaladin holds out his hand for Adolin to steady himself, and before Adolin is swept away by the press, Kaladin feels him drop something in his palm.
It is Adolin’s ring, bright in the sunlight. Kaladin hesitates, unsure if he holds a wish or a promise. He drops it in his pocket.