The Rebellion in White

by SorchaSolas

Summary:

Back in business, with the first two chapters refurbished!

“I want you to handle a big mission, something important.” And this is the perfect opportunity, because, how hard can capturing one teenager be? It said. It left another sour taste in Adolin’s mouth to think about how the leader of the storming rebellion was barely an adult. But, this was the perfect opportunity. He could prove himself to his father- no matter how ‘easy’ the mission may be.

 

Kaladin is the leader of a rebellion and Adolin is personally charged with taking down said rebellion and dispatching Kaladin.

Chapter 1: Banners and Disguises

Summary:

Kaladin gives a speech, and two notable individuals listen.

Kaladin stood atop the elevated section of the courtyard. This venue- Kaladin wasn’t sure it could be called that- was chosen for that reason; it allowed the droves of people gathering in the area to see Kaladin- to see his white clothing and hear his ideals and see him . That’s what people came for, right? A man to lead them. The thought made him a bit tired. 

Kaladin thought the white was a poor choice- considering the garments of the man who killed the old king. However, Sigzil and Teft argued it was both an accessible color for darkeyes and an extremely recognizable color. And they were right, for what it was worth- the color quickly became associated with his rebellion, instead of the former king’s assassin. Jokes circulated about, though, about The Rebellion In White. He thinks Lopen started it. If he got to choose their color, it would be a light blue. But that was a bit too close to Kholin Blue. 

It was a bright day out, even as the sun was covered by clouds- it shone through, illuminating the warcamps and letting Kaladin not have to squint at his crowd; lucky for him, because squinting isn't an exactly commanding facial expression. He looked across the crowd, seeing the passing washerwomen stopped to listen, the young men no doubt filling their heads with ideas on how to topple the monarchy, the older men standing with their arms crossed and the same hope in their eyes he had seen in Teft a week ago, sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, all gathered to listen to him. Storms, he was making himself nauseous. Syl, standing on his shoulder, sensed his unease and gave him a small, reassuring smile. 

The venue was in the Ruthar warcamp, a small little courtyard where the elevated section was mostly just a station for a vendor- the kind of place where only darkeyes and the low dahn lighteyes went. They had , for their credit, wanted to get a different venue, one in the Outer Market, so people didn't have to go into a different warcamp, but they had ultimately decided it was far too close to the king's palace for comfort. Making little speeches in small venues was one thing, but the Kholin warcamp and Outer Market were off-limits. What they were saying bordered- was, if he was honest with himself- treason. It was asking to be arrested, or killed. 

As the crowd was gathering, and Teft, Moash, and Skar were directing them away from where he would step up, Sigzil reviewed the script with him and fixed his outfit. It was wholly white, not a speck of other colors, besides his boots being just slightly off of white because- reportedly- it was hard to dye leather fully white. He looks like a glorified surgeon, or some holy soldier. It was an outfit he rarely took off these days. He had a common officer jacket, fully white, no knots, and a coat tail that went down to his knees. It has no embellishments, thank the Stormfather. It was paired with a long billowing cloak, the broach holding it together a wooden one, engraved and embellished by Tien. It was his favorite part of the outfit. 

Under the coat and cloak was a high-collared button-up shirt under a slightly thick vest. The collar restricted around his throat- an extremely uncomfortable feeling, enhanced by the long, slightly transparent white scarf. It wrapped once around his neck, then the two ends tucked under itself, flowing around his torso, ending around his thighs. His military-issue-style boots, just below knee length, tucked in his simple white trousers. It was a Herald’s-sent miracle he wasn’t always covered in dirt- perhaps a Teft-sent miracle instead, because he made Kaladin ride a horse. Something about leadership . Storming leadership.

Teft finally finished directing the crowd, then turned around, arm still outstretched towards the crowd, and gave Sigzil a thumbs up. Sigzil nodded and glanced at Kaladin, putting away his pages of notes and… whatever Sigzil had in that notebook. He reached towards Kaladin, brushed a piece of hair out of his face, then placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“You ready?” Sigil asked, far more seriously than Kaladin would’ve liked. Syl, who had migrated to Sigzil’s shoulder to stare at Kaladin. 

“It’s just a speech. I do this every other day.” Kaladin said, then sighed and took a deep breath. “Yeah. I’m ready. Thanks.” Syl gave him another smile, and Sigzil jumped- just noticing Syl. She flew downwards, and when Kaladin looked down, he saw she was nudging away a few exhaustionspren. He stepped on one of them, then shook his head. 

Kaladin stepped forward, taking center stage and scanning the crowd again. There were a few extra people- a father and son with stooped shoulders and dirty faces, a few more washerwomen, and- Tien. He stood off to the side, using one of his disguises. He took the form of a young girl, one with a long braid with blond streaks and big black eyes. He only recognized him because it was a familiar face- Tien had thought it appropriate to use Laral’s face. He had done it before. He said it was easier to use faces that were familiar. Kaladin pretended not to be nauseous whenever he saw it. 

In the few seconds he had spent focused on Tien, the crowd had grown silent, waiting for him. The anticipationspren were abundant, red streamers flitting upwards. Lopen, Leyten, and Lyn still cheered though, laughing and jumping up and down. They had designated themself the ‘L squad’ of the rebellion, although they were certainly not the only ones with a name starting with L in the entire force. Not anymore. He breathed out, and waited patiently for the trio to quiet down. They did, after a few heartbeats.

He took two deep breaths, then stepped forward once more and started to speak.

 

+++

“Woah,” Adolin found himself saying as the young man started his speech. He sounded like an ardent at a sermon, or a great general motivating his soldiers before a battle; all passion and assertiveness. Dalinar gave him an odd look, but Adolin just shrugged in response. He would even say he was better at public speech than his father, with that booming voice and his all white ensemble, elevated above the crowd- even more so due to his height- it made for a hell of a performance. 

They stood near the back, vaguely near the washerwoman who had stopped to watch and behind a group of young men, all who seemed only half interested in the speech, speaking amongst themselves of the chance for battle. They hid themselves using excellent makeup and ratty clothing. The makeup was to make them seem like laborers, dirty and worn and tired, and to change up our facial features; but his father had refused the makeup, probably trying to hold onto a semblance of masculinity- but had drabber clothing on, and a headband. No one spared them a glance, except for that one short moment when he and the young man locked eyes.

“I expected him to be… older,” Adolin commented, trying to stand on his tiptoes to see better. He looked around Renarin's age, maybe older, though he couldn’t be exactly sure from this far. 

“Younger men are often the ones who start these revolutions- they have extreme dreams and the passion to go with it,” his father said back, frowning as he seemed to forcibly stop himself from falling into parade rest. The man speaking had long, long , wavy black hair, framing his face and falling down, practically his waist. He paced across the stage, gesturing grandly, picking up the attitude. Adolin watched as people started murmuring, intrigued. Adolin was much more focused on his outfit, well-kept, fashionable, and a statement. His cloak was better than most Adolin owned, and that scarf was nice. It was all in white- a symbol of the assassin in white, he thinks. Beyond that, white fabric is more accessible, compared to any other unique color they could’ve picked. It makes their ‘rebellion’ more accessible. Adolin couldn’t discern much of the deeper symbolism he’s sure they had behind it, but he could appreciate the work they put into appearance. 

His father probably noticed he wasn’t actually paying attention to the words the man was saying, and nudged him slightly. Adolin nodded and turned back to the speech, actually listening this time.

“The lighteyes of these war camps treat us as lesser than chulls! Have you seen the bridgecrews?! Starved and mistreated, even though they’re the backbone of the plateau assaults! The blame for these injustices, more than just the bridgecrews, lies in not only the Highprinces that enact them, but the King himself for allowing this to occur!” The young man- what was his name ? He heard it in the briefing- Kaladin! That was his name. Adolin would be lying to himself if the boy didn’t have a good point. With a cursory glance towards his father, he affirmed he felt the same. His jaw was clenched, eyes focused on the presentation as if he was a soldier marching off to war.

“They send you, your sons, your fathers and your brothers to fight in a war they should’ve ended years ago, if not for their own greed! Is one king’s life worth more than the thousands we’ve lost, just because of the color of his eyes?” Kaladin switched topics, tone rising, vehement and charged- with more than just blind hatred, he felt. This was personal to him. The people started cheering in agreement, and Adolin had to feel impressed at the man’s ability to judge crowds. Kaladin seemed passionate about the bridgecrews specifically, but they were so lowly not even the darkeyes cared much about them. That thought struck Adolin with an emotion close to pity.

Adolin looked back at his father again, and let out a soft sigh. He wore a conflicted expression, frowning. He knew what his father was thinking- or something close to it. He agreed with Kaladin, on some level. He wanted to end this war too, and knew it was just because of greed; he thought the bridgecrews were barbaric. The problem was that his father could not tolerate disrespect of the King. Elhokar wouldn’t tolerate it either, Adolin thought with an internal grimace. The boy's ideals were honorable… but traitorous.

A dilemma— does the Kholin family ignore the rebellion, subdue it, or agree to their terms? Subduing them would only cause more outrage, especially since they haven't really done anything wrong, besides speaking ill of the King. Ignoring them wouldn't do anything… and agreeing? How would they change laws in the middle of a war, away from their capital? They couldn’t.

“We're their slaves, their servants, soldiers, farmers, and scribes! We hold up their economy, and we're treated like dirt! What do the lighteyes do for the country, besides giving us more wars for our families to die in and subjugate us? We don't have to tolerate this!” Kaladin finished, literally panting. It had an air of finality to it, and people started cheering and speaking. A final sentence was left out of the speech, turned into a request instead of a demand because it was unspoken — join us, and you won't have to tolerate it. 

His father moved to stand, hunching slightly to hide his height, and Adolin followed— he wasn't so tall he had to hunch, though. He watched gloryspren sprout out across the crowd as they continued to cheer. The leader retreated to the floor, slightly obscured by a small cart. Adolin caught a few exhaustionspren fluttering around Kaladin, and the man shooed them off. Interesting.

As they retreated, Dalinar let out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his crooked nose. Adolin let out a small sound of agreement, catching up so he was side by side with his father.

“He has a good argument— many of his points are those I've said myself. That's the most conflicting part.” His father said as he raised his hand to run it through his hair, then stopped short as he realized it would knock over his hood.

“Yeah. I half hoped he was just some arrogant ass looking to start trouble.” Adolin replied, crossing his arms. Many in the crowd started moving towards a few people dressed in white stationed at the cart, undoubtedly asking to join their cause. Kaladin was nowhere to be seen. 

“This isn’t the way to bring about change. He should-“ His father began, but Adolin cut him off.

“He should what? Prove himself to us, so we might grace him with some change? How would he do that, anyhow? All positions of respect and power are held by lighteyes.” Adolin felt himself angry on behalf of the rebellion— was that treason? He knew how it felt to be completely incapable to control the life he lived.

Dalinar grew quiet and thoughtful at that, frowning. Storms, did Adolin manage to say something his father listened to? He needed to tell Renarin.

They headed back to the Kholin camp, shrugging off their disguises once they made it to a respectable area in the Ruthar warcamp. Their eyes would’ve drawn a few stares back at the assembly, so Adolin had provided eye drops that made their eyes darker- they should be wearing off by now. If their eyes were still darker than usual, they could play it off as a trick of the light.

A darkeyed scribe named Lainia met them at the gate, smiling politely. Lainia had pure black Alethi hair, and dark green eyes, wearing a fashionable Kholin blue havah with slits to allow more movement. She had been in a different part of the crowd, writing down what Kaladin said. Dalinar either wasn’t worried about her loyalties to him fading, or he didn’t care— most likely the former.

She bowed, clutching her writing pad in her safehand. She gave a brief of what Kaladin had said, at the request of Dalinar– the only thing even remotely treasonous he had said was the one about the king being to blame for the bridgecrews.

Now, they had to tell Elhokar without the king giving an execution order. Unlikely.

Chapter 2: Old wounds and New Remedies

Summary:

Tien wakes up, like any other day, and Adolin receives a mission.

Tien opened his eyes.

It was still an odd feeling, even after three years. A part of him still expected to wake up in the Tranquiline Halls; it was the part that still insisted it had died on that day, and was just waiting for it to kick in.

But, no. He was alive and all he had to show for it was a nasty scar on his face and a fashionable white ensemble. Fashionable would be a stretch, for Tien had never grown fond of the soft silks of lighteyes, and those were the only white clothes that could be found in his size. Darkeyed children weren't given white— a color easily dirtied.

He sat up with a tired groan, then threw himself off the bed in an ironically energetic manner; mostly to amuse his spren— it worked, and he heard three humming sounds, almost like buzzing, in the cadence of a laugh from the back of his pillow. He shuffled over to the long— tall? — mirror on the stormward side of his room. Perhaps he dwelled too much in the past, but it was easy when the past left a scar running across the right side of his face, forehead to chin. He lifted a hand to his face, pressing against the scar gently. 

He pulled back with a hiss, the skin burning like a heating fabrial set too high. The only pain he felt from the scar now was the faintest of throbs when he pressed down on it, but he swears to the Almighty it burns when he touches it. He still remembers the sword slicing across his face, only barely deflected by his brother, how it felt like someone had pressed a heated iron rod to his face—

Shaking himself out of memories, he reached into his closet. Mostly consisting of white, if only to show support for their cause, with a few tan outfits, then his costumes. Not costumes, but rather, a small collection of outfits he used when Lightweaving. But he liked the word costumes. Made it more fun.

He ended up mixing and matching the outfits until he found something suitable— a long-sleeved white shirt and dark brown trousers. He was forced to bring a leather messenger bag to carry his infused spheres in and it ruined the flow of the outfit, but it was necessary. 

Suddenly, an intricate pattern ran up his leg and settled on his bag. Tien smiled, feeling the muscles where his lip met scar tug at the movement. He recalls a moment when Kaladin asked why he didn’t smile as much anymore. His brother probably had his own ideas— war and being slashed in the face can affect someone's mental health— but Tien just said it hurt when he did. (It didn’t, not really.) Kaladin still believes, Tien knows, that he’s lying, that he makes up that lie to avoid confronting the truth.

And is he wrong? His mind supplied, in a voice not his. His brother wasn’t wrong. He just… didn’t want to admit that. He continued to get dressed, pausing when his spren buzzed to get his attention.

“Mural!” Tien exclaimed, smiling at her. Mural sent back a distinctly annoyed buzz. She didn't like it when he lied, for a liespren. That included acting happy when he wasn’t. Mural says that Tien wasn't allowed to lie to his spren. 

Tien let his smile drop into a more neutral expression. It didn’t mean he wasn’t happy to see Mural, really. He wasn't sure what it meant. Her humming turned into something more content, and he went back to getting ready for the day, loosely tying up his shoulder-length hair. His hair had always grown a bit faster than others, and without his father to cut it, it quickly became a wavy mop that fell on his shoulders. Even when he tied it up, a good amount of sections were too short to stay in it, and he ended up with messy, frizzy bangs falling in front of his face. He didn’t mind too much— no, mural, he isn’t letting it grow out to look like Kaladin. 

Mural hummed more insistently, trying to catch his attention, and Tien turned to his spren obligingly. 

“Yes?” Tien asked with a bit of amusement. Mural was on the more quiet side, enjoying buzzing and humming in place of words the majority of the time— and the Cryptic was a blessing for it. He has a feeling not all Cryptics were as mercifully quiet as Mural was, though she couldn’t describe why.

“That outfit looks horrible on you.” Mural buzzed. Tien gave her a flat look, mildly confused, and the spren’s idle humming spiked multiple times, imitating laughter.

“I’ve been practicing sarcasm.” The spren said, shifting places from his lapel.

Tien raised an eyebrow— a few years ago, maybe, that eyebrow would’ve been an amused smirk. “So, you think my outfit looks good?” He asked with a tilt of his head.

“What?” Mural said with a confused buzz. Tien wasn’t sure how he could tell the difference between the tones, but he could. Tien moved to his bed and made it, folding his blanket and moving the pillows from his headrest to splay around the perimeter, on his headboard as well as the side of the bed pushed against the wall. He let the curtains open, morning light pouring in from a stilted angle, window facing away from where highstorms would come through.

“Sarcasm is like… when you say the opposite of what you mean, in a tone that makes it obvious you don’t mean it. Usually to mock someone.” Tien explained, humming to Mural’s rhythm of buzzing as it changed from confused to understanding.

“Oh!” Mural exclaimed, her humming mocking laughter once again. “I like sarcasm. Bad lies purposely used to convey truth.” Her form shifted, resting on the inside of his cuff, somehow bending so it looked like inner embroidery. 

Tien nodded in agreement. “That’s a good way to put it; a little confusing, but good.” His spren’s buzzing got more high-pitched at the praise, rotating in his jacket. 

He walked out of his room, into the small house Kaladin and he shared. It was situated in the Sadeas warcamp- just so Tien didn’t have to do much walking to get to work, and because it was exceedingly easy to get about your business without soldiers bothering you— on average, they were conducting shadier business than the rebellion was in any given instance. The house is a small one-story, with two bedrooms and a large living space, the kitchen is crammed into the corner; it reminded him of their house back in Hearthstone- a painfully tiny version, perhaps. 

The house was also the agreed upon meeting place for the leaders of the rebellion. As he walked out he saw his brother— eternally wearing white— standing over a table that had drinks and such on it. Everyone else- Teft, Moash, Sigzil, and a few others from different, smaller groups- were sitting, watching Kaladin expectantly as he spoke; then he stopped speaking, and turned to Tien— oh, that’s why he got up, right.

“Good morning,” Kaladin said, his voice still fixed in ‘diplomacy mode’, steady in volume and commanding. Tien stifled a laugh at it, and Kaladin himself cracked a smile at the tone of his voice.

“‘Morning.” He replied quickly, striding towards the kitchen to avoid having to stand there awkwardly. The other people in the room seemed unbothered by their conversation being interrupted, in fact, a few of them waved to Tien, to which he waved back. He wasn’t sure of his position in this operation. He technically kick-started it, but he wasn’t interested in being the leader, like Kaladin was. He just wanted to help. 

“Care to join us?” Sigzil asked, waving to an empty seat around the table, next to Kaladin. People were sitting on the nearby couch, on boxes and on stools, but they had saved a seat for Tien. Kaladin’s jacket sat on the back of it. 

Tien grabs a few pieces of cheese from the cabinet, along with some imported little crackers he got as a gift from his employer. Making his way over to the table, Skar shuffled to the side enough to allow him to slip into his chair, then promptly stole one of his crackers. Kaladin smiled at Tien for a split second, stole one of his crackers too, washing it down with some drink. Everyone stared at Tien, as if expecting something; it was probably obvious to everyone, but Tien had a funny way of being particularly dense in some contexts. Mural, silent since he walked into the room, started humming in anticipation. Moash was the first to speak, leaning back in his chair.

“Anything from Amaram?”

 

+++

 

“So, How’d it go?” Adolin asked his father as he walked out of the throne room. He had been waiting outside, talking with a member of the Cobalt guard. Dalinar let out an indescribable noise of frustration, smoothing back his gray-peppered hair. Oh, so bad. 

“Sounds like it was a pleasant conversation,” Adolin says sarcastically, mentally steeling himself and falling in line behind his father as they walk down the halls of the war palace, all concrete and soldiers. Even then, the building feels too flashy, too permanent for a wartime building; Adolin doesn’t think that sends the right message. He wants out of this place, but more and more people seem to be making this a colony of Alethkar.

“He wants the leader of the rebellion found and imprisoned. Potentially executed.” His father said, frowning.

“Oh.” Adolin grimaced. He didn’t have anything else to say. That was the likely outcome; Elhokar would’ve had what that Kaladin said read to him, and he had directly spoken out against the king.

“He’s afraid they’ll try to assassinate him. Though my gut feeling says they wouldn’t, for some unknowable reason, it is still a very real possibility— probably the only valid claim Elhokar’s had in weeks.” Dalinar said, folding his arms behind his back and staring straight ahead, towards the family quarters set up— towards Navani, Adolin realized. Servants bowed as they passed, smiling before immediately returning to their work; Adolin made sure to smile back and wave at them, despite Dalinar’s indifference- his mother had taught him ignoring people was rude.

“I mean, you’d have to- at least in this manner. Elhokar wouldn’t like it if you ignored an issue this big- especially if they’re actively speaking out against the king.” Despite how reasonable it sounded, the words felt wrong, bitter, in Adolin’s mouth. He should be relieved that Elhokar is finally worried about real things, instead of shadows in the corners and reflections in the mirrors. He wasn’t, not really. 

“You’re right, and it frustrates me. I cannot explain why.” His father responded, trailing off for a few heartbeats before turning to Adolin, still walking. “Can I trust you to handle this?”

“What?” Adolin blinked, hesitating in their stride. Dalinar stopped as well. The servants scurried away from them, oddly unnerved being near them. Odd.

“I want you to oversee this mission..” His father said as if that explained everything, staring down at him.

“But, why?” He wasn’t good at espionage, or anything like that. Navani had spies to utilize— they could get Kaladin in a cell before the sun set. Why him? 

“This is an opportunity for you to handle something big, Adolin.” Dalinar said, oddly fatherly in tone. “I’ve been preparing for you to take my place as Highprince one day, and that means trusting you with things.” Adolin’s heart dropped to his stomach. Watching Dalinar be so honest with him— voicing thoughts normally reserved for Navani, or his own company, made Adolin feel… weird. This was the perfect opportunity for Adolin, wasn’t it? Give him something domestic, barely deadly, and just big enough he can be sure Adolin can handle more. It was perfectly logical. He still felt sick to his stomach, like little cremlings were worming their way into it.

“Alright,” Adolin said because what else could he say, trying really hard to seem calm, “but how do we– I– go about this?” At this, Dalinar hesitated. Was he just supposed to, what, find Kaladin and knock him out? Take him to prison? Was it a dead or alive situation? The thought of killing that boy made him want to throw up. Even through everything he’s done so far, Kaladin didn’t seem much older than his baby brother. Eventually, after a moment of thought, Dalinar turned around and continued walking. Adolin hurried to catch up with him, having to remember how to walk.

“Elhokar’s orders, verbatim, were to ‘dismantle the rebellion, and capture the leader. Alive or dead’.” Dalinar began, looking a little ill himself, “Don’t think it will be that easy, son. You’ll have to, in all likelihood, imprison and kill more than just him. They seem the loyal type. I will allocate a number of Kholin soldiers and Navani’s spies to help you.” His father’s voice had a regretful tone. So that answered all of Adolin’s questions. 

“Don’t disappoint me, Adolin.” Dalinar said before turning to walk to Navani’s quarters.

 

+++

 

Walking with purpose towards Navani’s rooms– he said he was going to allocate spies for Adolin, but he hadn’t… finalized that with her. In the ten minute walk, it left time to think.

He had every reason to squash this rebellion. It was terrible timing, really. Elhokar was too paranoid for a rebel group these days, and any sort of civil dispute during wartime was unfavorable. But, he felt remorseful, despite all of the reasons to not. The boy was only nineteen, the same age as his youngest son. He was asking Adolin to capture this boy, to treat him like a threat instead of a person. Even beyond that, a churning in his stomach from guilt, and shame, resided.

That boy stands for everything The Way of Kings teaches, and you decide to imprison him? He thought. It wasn’t his decision, he tries to remind himself. He tried to blame it on Elhokar— he was just following his orders. But that weak excuse. He was still carrying them out, thus he was to blame, as well. It would do well for him to remember that. No avoiding responsibility, not anymore. His actions are his own, no matter the influences around it. He took a deep breath. 

Under almost any other circumstance, Dalinar would be overjoyed to know Kaladin. From what he’s heard, he’s just and righteous, and at some points in his speech almost directly quoting the Codes, the ideals that his brother followed, even if the young man didn’t know it. It was hard to feel any sort of joy about knowing that those kinds of men existed, in truth. Knowing what was to become of Kaladin. 

He doubts Elhokar will let the poor boy live, whether or not Adolin killed him or not. He barely cared now if he turned up alive. He just wanted him removed. Even through his remorse, shame, and guilt, Dalinar couldn’t bring himself to object.

Notes:

Unexpectedly a Tien Lives AU!!!

Chapter 3: Chapter 2.5 - Three Years Ago

Summary:

Amaram finds a mysterious, annoying, boy.

Notes:

A filler chapter, written in like three seconds, just to set up the concept that there will be flashbacks.

Torin, a boy with soft green eyes and shiny brown hair, stood in Amaram’s office, a cold sweat forming down his neck.

He wasn’t meant to be someone who talked, so he had to create a personality for himself, and fast. Lets see, lets see… not soft spoken, but not loud. Competent– he straightened, adopting a stern face, like Kal when he trains greenvines– but not towards the correct things. Rebellious, but not to a dangerous extent. Ran away to join the army, if only to escape his parents. Kal was… was… a pen pal. From childhood.

If Amaram looked, he would find a Torin, but with no recorded enlistment date, or known birthplace. Lets hope he didn’t look. 

He really, really hadn’t meant to be noticed. Torin was for when he needed to get something done, mainly something against the rules and laws of the army. He would do it, get yelled at, get sent to disciplinary, and then slip away back into Tien, the small, incompetent messenger boy. 

Except, he had forgotten that when the same soldier gives almost every damn officer in the army the slip, there was bound to be consequences. Torin wasn’t exactly sure why he complied this time. Morbid curiosity? Torin had committed countless petty crimes, according to the officers that knew him. He had done, also, countless serious crimes, but he had’t gotten caught doing those. He wasn’t stupid. 

Maybe a little, because, what? Would Amaram execute the little boy? Take it upon himself to discipline him? Torin, was, above nervousness, curious. 

Curiosity killed the skyeel, A voice said in his mind. When he was younger, it sounded like his father. Consistent, steady, and kind. Lately, it’s been sounding more like Kal.

But satisfaction brought it back. Tien responded to it, giggling a little internally. 

Footsteps sounded from further in the multiroom tent, and Torin straightened up again, the nervousness overtaking the curiosity once again. 

A tall man with a handsome face and perfectly groomed Alethi black hair walked through the tent curtains, in a sharp Sadeas uniform. Amaram.

“Sir,” Torin began, but the man gave him a harsh look, and he shut up. Not too loud…

“Do you understand just how much trouble you’re in?” Amaram said, though he didn’t sound the least bit angry. Calculated, almost deadpan. Interesting. 

“I couldn’t deign to assume,” Torin said, having to physically stop himself from laughing. His face did not betray him. Mostly because he had to Lightweave on a neutral face. 

Amaram sighed. “I want to punish you but…” he squinted at Torin. “I’m almost impressed with how many times you could evade being punished. From the reports, this is the only time you’ve actually reported for disciplinary action.” Amaram rubbed his chin as he began to pace, considering something.

“Why did you do all of those things?” Amaram asked, somehow genuinely curious. “All were minor thefts, more or less.” He was right. He stole bandages for Kal’s men, spears from the quartermaster when they wouldn’t give his brother any more, spare pieces of leather that weren’t being used, to make grips for spears. 

Torin answered honestly. “Because my friend needed my help,” then he lied. “And promised to help me in return. There’s something I want.” Amaram couldn’t think him weak, or selfless. 

“Interesting. What is it that you want, little boy?” The Highmarshal asked. “It’s very rare someone your age takes initiative like you have.”

“I want to stop being just a messenger,” another lie. “To stop running around, doing and delivering and following orders.” 

“Hm,” Amaram commented. “You happen to have a particular talent for slipping away,” he said as he sat down on one of the chairs. Torin stayed standing. “And I have a large suspicion you’ve gotten away with more crimes than you haven’t, little boy. Am I right?” 

“You are,” Torin replied, almost smug.

“Well then, you could be of use to me.” Amaram said, almost to himself. Wait, what? “You’re promoted. Follow me.” And then he got up and walked back to where he came from. Wait, what? Torin, belatedly, followed.

Chapter 4: The Two Kaladins

Summary:

Adolin almost catches Kaladin, and the other Kaladin gets an earful from a tenner.

Notes:

hey chat I encourage and am actually begging for critique on any class issues I address in this fic. I'm not amazing at addressing them, and would love any comments on what to fix or what sounds Super Out Of Touch and stupid.

While all the material, resources, and guidance were given to Adolin freely, he was still stumped on finding this Kaladin. It did make him feel like some… chullbrained idiot, both with the indignation of being given so many resources like he couldn't handle it himself, and the fact he…. Couldn't handle it himself.

He wasn't stupid, though, okay? He knows Kaladin makes public appearances, and he could easily nab the guy there, but he had been explicitly forbidden from doing that. It was too public, where almost half of the darkeyed population would watch Adolin Kholin tackle the leader of a (so far) peaceful revolution down to the ground. And that's besides the fact that Kaladin had about ten guards at any given time. 

He'd be dead before he could get him to prison.

So, he was restricted to finding him in places where there wasn't a crowd of people watching him. Easy. Except for the fact that he seemed to be a storming ghost outside of speaking on stages. Not one spy could find the man. You'd think it'd be easy, with the stark white get-up and all. 

Adolin walked along the market, shopping for some fabrics. He had the vague idea for some sort of infiltration plot, which got immediately shut down by Navani's spies. But he didn't answer to them, he led this mission. Why make him lead the mission if they were just going to boss him around?

He found one of the few stalls in the Outer Market that sold raw fabrics, all of the clothing the light cream that undyed cotton had. He stepped into the tent, and-

Looked directly at Kaladin Stormblessed, leader of the rebellion.

 

~~~

 

Tien had concocted a beautiful plan. Really, no, it's amazing. Even Kaladin had to agree. 

They had deduced there were people after them pretty quickly, after Tien saw them lurking about as Kaladin gave one of his speeches. 

Tien had figured out Navani's spy network faster than the dowager queen probably would've liked, and decided to divide her forces in half. Kaladin would do whatever he was doing, and Tien would do what he was doing. Also, as Kaladin. That way, his routine couldn't be deduced, and Navanis’ spies would be split between watching Kal and Tien-Kal. 

So, here he was, running errands as Kaladin. It was awkward, and he had to wear heels to get even close to the height his brother was, but it was working so far. He opted to “wearing” a basically floor-length white trench coat, just to cover any inconsistencies between his illusion and his actual body. He could make things appear, but he sure as Damnation couldn't make things disappear.

He was just getting some fabrics for clothing- this particular vendor, and others within the camps, loved the new trend of undyed clothing being used, no matter the source of the trend. And they needed a lot of it. Kaladin alone went through an outfit every week. His scarf has survived the bulk of it, but between the general post-highstorm mud, the vague dirtiness of warcamps, and the fact that the rest of Bridge Four insisted the leader's outfit must be pristine, he was buying Kaladin new stuff almost every weekend. 

When he turned around after paying for his basket of clothing, he was met with the face of a particularly dumbfounded-looking lighteyes. With blonde and black hair and a… Kholin uniform.

“So… Adolin Kholin, huh? Didn't your mother teach you that if you make funny faces for too long, you'll get stuck like that? You're well on your way there.” Kal-Tien said, smirking at his own terrible joke. He didn't have Kaladin's voice down exactly, and it sounded more like Kal when he was fifteen than anything else. 

“I- wha-” Kholin stammered, then regained his senses. “Stormblessed.” He growled, not unlike how he would imagine the Blackthorn would.

“Oh, shit,” Kal-Tien muttered. He was in danger. He hefted his basket higher into his arms and turned heel and ran. 

 

~~~

 

“Oh- no you don't!” Adolin screamed at Kaladin, sprinting after the man. He had on a rather odd trenchcoat, characteristically white, and clunky boots. Almighty, what a terrible outfit- FOCUS. 

Kaladin seemed unwilling to let go of the undoubtedly heavy basket, running and practically stumbling over himself to keep it with him. He looked… odd. Taking too long strides for how slow he's going, his running slightly out of time. It was disorienting to look at. 

Adolin pushed past the people in his way, yelling towards the other man. Once they were in a less crowded area- perfect! He caught up quickly- much too quickly for a man with that long of legs- and tackled Kaladin to the ground.

The other man made an unbecoming squeak as his basket flew out of his hands, tumbling into the mud-soaked alley. He heard a faint curse from Kaladin. Adolin tried shoving him into the ground, holding his legs down with his own, attempting the same with his arms.

“Ass…hole!” Kaladin grunted out, struggling against Adolin, kicking at his shins and pushing against his shoulder. When he realized he couldn't push and shove his way out of his grip, he let out a sound- half-growl, half-yell- of frustration, glaring at Adolin.

“Just…” Adolin grunted out, “Let me arrest you!” He successfully pinned down Kaladin's right arm and then felt the same arm grip his shoulder. What-

“Let me GO!” Kaladin pitched out, oddly squeaky for such a large man, and punched Adolin square in the jaw with his left fist. It was an unexpectedly hard punch. 

He fell over to his side, letting go of Kaladin as he groaned in pain, seeing black spots in his vision. He heard the distant sound of the other man scurrying away as he lay there, panting.

 

~~~

 

Adolin blinked, once, twice, as his vision finally cleared. He lay staring up at the sky, pain still radiating in his jaw. 

Blood of my fathers, Adolin thought woozily, he throws a mean left hook. 

He let himself lie there for a couple more seconds- minutes- decidedly already lost Kaladin. Well. He'll have to take Navani's spies' advice on not infiltrating them. Seems they already know what he looks like. 

 

~~~

 

Tien let his illusion puff away as he ran, panting and huffing. He was still carrying that storming basket, too poor to really consider just leaving it there, as he made his way back to their house.

As he burst in, he was met with the sight of Moash, staring down a map like it owed him money. Whatever he was doing, Tien didn’t care. 

“Adolin… is looking for Kal. To arrest him.” Tien puffed out, letting go of the basket and letting it flop to the ground. He, himself, flopped onto the couch near the door, adrenaline still pumping through his veins.

“Oh, storms.” Moash said, groaning, then turned and walked away to probably tell someone else or something. Tien decided to take a nap.

 

~~~

 

Kaladin stood on the precipice of something. Syl refused to tell him what, but he felt it coming in his veins like an incoming highstorm.

He spoke his second ideal back in the bridgecrews, before Tien had saved them. There was something that clicked in his mind, like a piece of a puzzle. The bridgecrews, his enslavement, Amaram, Roshone. He had seen them as personal experiences, something that affected him, made him who he was. What led up to that second ideal, really, was listening. The stories of each person in the bridgecrews, the laborers, and even storming Gaz. 

They all went through something like Kaladin had, something that made them broken in their own way. Kaladin wasn’t unique, and it couldn't be something he ignored once he got out of the bridgecrews. He cared for these people, storms, even Gaz, somehow, after learning his story, and it wasn't isolated to him like he thought it was. He was so caught up in his own head, in his own suffering, that he ignored that there were so many others just like him.

Now, that same clicking, turning feeling in his head found its place. It came, mostly, when he talked to a man named Merelar. A lighteyes. A tenner. 

There was something about lighteyes, the feature, not the class, that made Kaladin uneasy. They pierced, judged, and shamed. He could see too many details in their eyes, and it unnerved him. He didn't use to think like that; he used to think Laral's eyes, reflecting all the light into different green hues, were the most beautiful thing he could have seen.

Merelar was drunkenly complaining when Kaladin met him. About his work, about the monarchy, about the Blackthorn, and then belatedly stopped when he saw Kaladin towering over him. Kaladin realized in about two seconds that Merelar wasn't actually drunk, or even tipsy, just complaining. The wine was pink, and only halfway gone.

“What do you have to complain about?” Kaladin had said, leaning on the bar top. “You're a lighteyes. The entire system was built to cater to you.” He got a barking laugh in response, with a couple of other chuckles.

“It was made to cater to high-dahn lighteyes. They're the ones who get the benefits, not tenners. Or niners. Or eighters. Or seveners, not really. There's about ten million people in Alethkar, or something, and there's only about two hundred people in the whole storming country that the system is catered to.” Merelar rambled, swirling his drink towards Kaladin. 

Kaladin considered this, then frowned at the man. “You can't get sold into slavery. You can build yourself up towards those higher dahns. We can't. You have more jobs, a higher income, and more respect. Don't think you don't have privileges, but you do.” He replied, sitting down next to the man.

“Yeah, sure. I do.” Merelar admitted. “But, what? I get executed instead of getting enslaved. That whole climb the ranks shit doesn't even exist in actuality, unless you get some shardbearer or convince some highborn daughter you're worth her time, which doesn't even really happen unless you have shards.” Merelar inhaled, then exhaled. 

“We have more jobs, more income, sure. But what is that compared to highborns? They party in excess, spending away their limitless wealth while we work, are practically immune to the law unless some other highborn prick has a problem with them, and act like they're somehow just born better.” Merelar pointed between him and Kaladin. 

“I swear on it, we aren't so different. You guys got it worse, sure, but what good's it gonna do barking at us when we're put down under the same boot you are?” And that made Kaladin blink. 

“Id bet you everything I have in my pouch that we have the same amount of money in our pouches. There's some lighteyed bimbo carrying around a house's worth of gems in her safehand purse right now, enough to support a whole family for their entire life, and you're over here scolding some tenners.” 

Kaladin raised an eyebrow. That seemed pointed. Merelar kept going, rambling about how, no, really, he wasn't so different from darkeyes. It was variations of good points and bad ones, mixed into some hateful speech towards his own kind. But Kaladin had been better at listening, especially recently. There was more divide than he thought, more than just blatant hate towards every lighteyed person. 

This tenner, who worked on a paycheck down at the warcamps, were different then those feasting at the king's keep and sheltered away in Kholinar. 

Didn't mean they struggled just the same as a slave or a bridgeman, like Merelar tried to claim. They were better off, obviously, in so many ways. But what did a slight advantage mean in the face of kings and princes? 

They did end up comparing each other's purses. Kaladin had more than Merelar. And the poor man had just been paid. He worked in the lumber field, getting paid to be yelled at by some commander as he chopped wood. 

“Have you ever…” Merelar searched for his words. “Have you ever tried to store something, and even though its the same stuff, some arrangements just… make your life easier? Fit better, and all that?”

“Sure,” Kaladin said, even though he had never done anything like that. He understood the concept.

“Well, if you're looking for change, hounding at tenners and trying to fix the semantics isn't gonna get you anywhere until you handle the big stuff.” Merelar nudged an obvious, almost comical eyebrow down to Kaladin's all white outfit. 

“Sure,” Kaladin said again, and slumped down on the chair, sighing. “Has anyone told you you talk alot?”

“All the time, Mr. Stormblessed.”