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Chapter Text

       There’s a silence in the heart of the battle. When everything settles, just for a moment. Heavy breaths fall between wisps of stirred-up dust. A line of sweat falls down each man’s cheek beneath his helm. Time winds to a slow the second after the first clash of swords, a dull ting of metal on metal. Then it begins again, a flurry of motion as one whirls around to deal another blow, another ducking to steady himself against the attack, poised to take advantage. Dalinar Kholin drops a fist to the shoulder of his attacker, hand stretched behind him, counting for a moment, praying his blade will pull itself into being in his waiting hand. He grits his teeth and tries to count with the pounding in his ears, but he’s interrupted by a kick to his knee. His plate buckles under the hit from the offending boot. The other man, shrouded in unfamiliar, yet ordinary metal armor of his own, pulls a black blade from the air, rolling back for another hit. Dalinar rights himself, shuffling back to gain a hair's breadth of space where he can breath, recollect himself, and summon the Stormfather. As the blade materializes comfortably in his grip, a figure skids into the ring, small, and paralyzed with fear. Oh no .

---

       Dalinar had been having a relatively uninteresting day. Urithiru hadn’t yielded any of its secrets to the Knights Radiant yet today, it’s halls as silent and empty as ever. No new responses from neighboring kingdoms had graced his spanreeds last he checked. Not even any wind outside. Just a pulsing, dead heat. The kind that leeches the water from your bones. Uncharacteristic for this area, he supposed, but that would be a question for an ardent. Or maybe a storm warden? Dalinar paused, hands on the frame of a shutter-less open window. This hall was lined on either side with arched openings, North to South, preventing too much dust accumulating in the room due to wind. Heavy doors on either end provided shelter during storms. Dalinar liked to walk here alone to think. Rather, as alone as a guarded man could be. Teft and some soldier Dalinar hadn’t been as well acquainted with stood at either end, armed and bored. The guard was basically a formality. Nothing had happened necessitating them for quite some time, and at this rate, nothing would. The other soldier, quite a bit younger than Teft, picked at one nostril with his thumb. Dalinar suppressed amusement at that, turning from the window to lean his back against the railing and peered across the hall and through the other window. From here, he could see another building, it’s marbled stone walls reaching into the sky. Dalinar relaxed against the sill. What was a king to do on such a dreadfully boring day?

       Dalinar felt the familiar tightness of his gauntlets resizing to accommodate his hands. It shifted in the strange protesting way that made it feel alive. Somehow, Dalinar knew that it knew he wasn’t his son. Dalinar and Adolin were of similar stature, and even approximate build, but the plate didn’t care. It begrudgingly sealed itself around Dalinar’s body. The king gave it a spare thought, a whispered prayer of gratitude. It wasn’t terribly difficult to get Adolin to part with his plate for the afternoon, at least not when you’re his father and direct superior. The entire plan made Dalinar giddy, like he was a teenage boy playing some elaborate prank again. Like switching jackets with his brother to fool their tutors (who would play along happily). No one except for Adolin was to know of this. He would wear Adolin’s plate into the dueling ring, agreeing to spar with anyone who would like to challenge him. Being a man of his age, and social stature, it was difficult to find anyone willing to take up the ring with him normally. Everyone was so damn scared of breaking him. It frustrated Dalinar. But this, this way was essentially foolproof. As long as he didn’t raise his visor, or have any plate knocked free, this would be an evening of fun. A way to blow off steam on a hot, boring day.

       The grounds were eerily quiet. An ardent held a sword to his side, instructing a few young soldiers in front of him in different stances. Dalinar cleared his throat, stepping forward. Carefully, he tried his best to imitate the youthful cadence of Adolin’s voice, hoping the plate would muffle it enough to be believable.

       “Gentlemen, would anyone like to spar?” He bit his tongue at how casual he sounded. He tried to remember some of the slang he’s caught Adolin spewing with the other young men. Frankly, all he could remember were curse words. “It’s blustering boring here.” He hoped that wasn’t too strong of an epithet. The soldiers in training bowed their heads in acknowledgment, muttering out a ‘brightlord’. Ah, so that’s how they regarded Adolin. This was proving to be interesting on top of potentially fun.

       “We are still working on our stances, Brightlord Adolin,” the ardent offered. His head was reverently shaven, his beard angled off. He had a scar on his lip, right through the center, trailing up into his nose. He waved his free hand as he spoke in an uncharacteristically jovial way. Most of Dalinar’s ardents were much softer spoken. “Perhaps you would be better pressed to find an opponent on the South ring.”

       As he spoke, a group of men in armor rounded one corner, chatting idly about some bet that one of them had recently lost. Their chest plates were painted with a blue glyph, likely one of the Kholin’s men. Adolin had recently chosen ranks for a new group of mounted soldiers. These were likely coming from riding lessons, judging by the direction they entered. Dalinar raised a gauntleted hand towards them in greeting.

       “Have you saved any energy for a fight, men?” They started, looking among themselves as if to say ‘not me, you!’ Finally, one soldier stepped forward, his armor unpainted and his helm on, visor down.

       “I’ll take you on, Brightlord.” Dalinar could hear the arrogant grin in his voice. Was this, what was his name, Adolin’s friend from the warcamps. Jakamav? No, that boy wouldn’t have called Adolin by his title. Regardless, Dalinar barked a laughing agreement, and waved him into the ring, nodding to the Ardent to keep a score. He turned, facing a rack of prop weaponry. He couldn’t summon a blade now, in front of everyone here. Even if the Stormfather would shape himself to appear as Adolin’s blade, the color wouldn’t be quite right. Besides, even dulled, it would be unfair to fight with a blade against a man with a simple sword. Granted, he was wearing plate even still, but Dalinar could adjust his moves accordingly. He was a man of honor, afterall, and wouldn’t take on a fight in a way that he could down the man in one hit. He bent to select a metal broadsword from the bottom of the rack, when a deafening clamor rang out in his ears as a dull pain cracked from his shoulder blades, shoving him to the ground. The man had taken an attack of opportunity from behind. This wouldn’t be a clean battle.

       Dalinar righted himself quickly, spinning to see his opponent raising his sword for a second hit. The blade was a dark black, unlike any metal Dalinar had seen before. The soldier moved with an almost inhuman motion, joints seeming to twist as though suspended like a puppet. He brought the blade down hard, narrowly missing Dalinar.

       “What is this?!” Dalinar called out to the man. The other soldiers to the side were frozen in fear, the odd hand clasped over the odd mouth. The ardent was shuffling his greenvines into the armoring rooms, away from the commotion and calling for help. The calls rang empty in Dalinar’s mind as his heart quickened. This wasn’t a duel. This was an assassination attempt.

---

       Renarin Kholin stands, motionless, an arm’s reach away from the assassin. His fingers tingle at his sides, unable to twitch into a familiar stance, anything that would help his brother. The assassin turns on him. Oh, storms, why can’t he move? This was foolish, foolish, foolish. Always rushing into things without a second thought after the initial thought convinced him he could. Renarin is unarmed, and unarmored, clad only in his thick blue jacket and new leather boots. Surely the dust of a new battle will ruin them, huh? His brain offers as a useless thought. Come on, think. MOVE. He can’t.

       The assassin raises his blade and centers it in Renarin’s chest. Renarin falls, body slumping into the warm dirt. As a final thought, he realizes the dirt will scuff his cheek too, as it would his boots. Useless thoughts.

       Useless, because they aren’t even right. His cheek finds a softness to where it falls. Cool fabric, comforting, as he falls asleep.

Chapter Text

       Renarin stirs, sleep-laden eyes opening to face the beam of sunlight sneaking past the curtains. The room is otherwise dark, accentuating the soft red glow from the side table fabrial. Was all that just a dream? Strange , Renarin muses as his hand drifts to the table, picking up his glasses. They settle on his face and he takes in the room, shadows now crisper, the details coming into focus. This… this isn’t his bedroom, at least not the one he has been staying in at… at the um. The place with the tall building? Whatever it was called. He lays off center in a large bed with a dark red bedspread. The furnishings in the room are modest, almost utilitarian in their sleek blackness. A dark bookshelf sits in one corner half-filled with small, thick books. A table flanks the bed on either side, and Renarin jumps as he notices the red wasn’t from the warming fabrial -as he had assumed- but from a uhm. Right, an alarm clock. You’re just having a hard time waking up, Renarin , he assures himself, a much-needed soothing thought. Something was off about today. Maybe he’s sick.

---

       The assassin is gone. Gone as fast as he had attacked. Dalinar had swung his blade at the man who had dared hurt his son, but found no resistance as the sword drug through the hot summer air and fell dead at his side. Renarin was folded on the ground, shaking. His father tore at his helm, his gauntlets, freeing his sweaty skin to the view of startled soldiers. A few gasp, a whisper of his name, a question. Dalinar doesn’t hear them as he turns Renarin on his back. There is no blood, no wound. The boy shivers, breathing shakily, unconscious. A spren, something black and red and twisting, sinewy vines wrap around his chest. Several tendrils appear to phase through and into his ribcage. Effortlessly, Dalinar scoops his son up in a gentle hold.

       “Call for medics-- Ardents. Scholars. Navani! Get Navani!” Dalinar roars behind him as he tucks Renarin against his chest and sprints towards the nearest building. Whatever in Damnation this was, he was going to save his son. He tossed a bitter, cursing thought towards the Stormfather for his eerie silence on the matter. Dalinar felt alone in this, trudging through the dark halls towards an open room, soldiers clanging a trail behind him.

       With reverent, trembling hands, he lays Renarin across a bench at a table in the small room. It’s the closest room without windows, just the one door he could guard. A bowl of spheres glows dimly on the table, accentuated by two torches held in sconces by the door. With such long times between storms now, it was difficult to keep the lights infused. Renarin makes a breathy choking sound, shifting slightly on the bench.

       “There, there, Renarin,” Dalinar whispers, steadying the boy. “Help is coming.”

---

       Soft music drifts through a cracked door on the far wall, followed by the smell of food cooking. The sensation is comforting, reminding Renarin of… of…. Of something. He stretches, swinging his legs off the bed and digging his toes into a plush rug. The brain fog is heavy today, he settles on. Maybe he just needs some tea. Tugging his shirtsleeves down over his hands, he shuffles into the next room. If this is home, why does it feel so unfamiliar? Pictures were hung on the wall in the hallway, alien memories that merely ghosted through Renarin’s mind as he tried to recall them. A picture of him as a child with his mother and father in stiff clothing, a garden in the background and a blur that vaguely resembles Adolin off to one side. Dalinar was smiling, his wife’s hand trailing into the commotion caused by a hyperactive Adolin. This looked like it was taken at some event, or party. Renarin can’t recall what.

       The hall curves at the end, opening up into a bigger room, a dining table and kitchen situated before an archway into another chamber. The table is small, and set for two with large glasses and plates, a newspaper folded next to one setting. The kitchen is equally small, occupied by a man in patterned trousers and white undershirt. His hair is long, but tied up loosely at his neck. Chopping vegetables at a counter, he hums under his breath to the music he was listening to before turning to scoop the vegetables into a pan on the stove.

       “Captain?” It was Kaladin, right? Renarin’s superior looked odd dressed so informally, almost like he had when he… when he….

       Kaladin turned and fixed Renarin with a cocked eyebrow and amused grin. “Captain, eh? Something new you want to try?” He snorts, turning back to the pan and shuffling it’s contents around with a sizzle. That was a stupid thing to say, Renarin berates himself. It’s Kal, after all. A little shaken, he lowers himself into one seat at the table, falling into a familiar ritual. Kaladin follows shortly behind, scooping a mixture of potatoes and vegetables onto Renarin’s plate. After returning the pan to the extinguished stove, he appears with a pitcher of… something. “I made it with coconut milk today,” he says, pouring some into a glass in front of Renarin. It was a green blended drink of some sort. A smoothie. Oh yeah, right. This is a thing Kaladin drinks. “You didn’t like the cashew milk yesterday, did you?”

       “No, sorry, thank you,” Renarin replies automatically, despite not knowing what Kaladin was referring to. For lack of a better thing to say, he takes the glass and drinks heartily from it. It… tastes like grass, honestly. And maybe oats? Like something a horse would drink. Shakily, he sets the glass back down and meets Kaladin’s eyes, brown and expectant. “It’s uh, it’s good!”

       That must have been the wrong thing to say, since Kaladin frowns slightly. “It’s probably the concept you don’t like,” he says, glancing at his own glass. “Maybe you should stick to getting your spinach from salads.” He drinks some of the concoction with a satisfied smack of his lips.

       Nice lips.

       What? It hits Renarin very suddenly what was wrong with this scene. Was he living - ALONE - with Kaladin? He staggers back in his seat, bumping his knees on the bottom of the table, his fork clattering against the porcelain of the plate.

       “Woah, woah,” Kaladin says, hands raised defensively. “I didn’t mean to call you out, or anything. Sorry if that upset you.” His voice was a little flat, oddly gruff yet placating all the same.

       “No, it’s-” Renarin starts, but falls silent. “It’s fine, really, Kal.” He glances at his plate. “This looks delicious.”

       “I should hope so, it’s your recipe,” Kaladin snarks around a forkful of the potatoes. “Are you going to eat? My father called and wants me to drop by the clinic, I was going to invite you.” Renarin picks at the vegetables (onions, peppers, spinach (again) and carrots) and nods approvingly, eating what his nervous stomach can handle before they leave to visit Lirin.