Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Day 5, Of the Final 10 Days

Moash lay back on the cot. He couldn’t see the smooth stone overhead, but something about the way the sound echoed in the freshly soulcast barrack was achingly familiar. His eyes no longer saw ordinary light, but he’d found that his tear ducts still worked well enough. He remembered shivering on the floor of a barrack like this one as a bridgeman. He thought of the smell of Layton’s rotting wound, when it had seemed like the man would surely die. He felt the vast pit of hopelessness that had been everything in those days. And he remembered Kaladin filling it up with a future full of people he had loved and then lost.

Since Khen and then Leshwi had left, he’d been alone. Before Rayse had died, this hadn’t bothered him. Little had bothered him while Rayse protected him. Now it was as if a great weight had settled onto him, then broken and shattered into a thousand smaller weights, pressing down on him until he was buried and suffocated. He’d thought it was unbearable but it hadn’t killed him. Nothing that should have killed him had done so, not the bridgeruns, not the fused, not having crystal spikes pounded into his eye sockets, not even Kaladin. Now here he was again, chilled to the bone in a cavernous barracks. At least the Singers had provided him with a proper cot and thick blankets. They’d never failed to treat him more kindly than the lighteyes. If he still couldn’t get warm, it was his own fault; the cold was coming from inside.

He wondered what Khen was doing now. She’d said she wanted to live out her own passions, but had she been allowed to? He hadn’t asked where she was going, or what she planned to do. With Rayse’s protection on him, it hadn’t been important. He’d wished her well, dimly, and then gotten back to work. Now he wished he knew where she was so at least he could picture her there. Rayse had made things so easy. Follow orders. Carry rocks. No choices to be made. No desires. Almost no desires. But he didn’t want to think about that now, didn’t want to think about him now, but how could he avoid it in this too-familiar barrack? Eventually he gave up on sleep and headed out. Maybe moving around would warm him up. 

He crunched along the path through the camp. He was still adjusting to his new eyes. The flight to the Horneater peaks had been strange, it was easy enough to follow the heavenly ones whose glow pulsed with a rhythm that was chaotic and but relentless, building on itself again and again towards a conclusion that remained just out of reach. But it was hard to see ordinary things like the ground: a disturbing feeling. He was learning to infer based on the behavior of spren and the faint glow of living plants, but the rock itself was invisible. He had to step very carefully to avoid stumbling.

The view of Dai-Gonarthis’ elsegate through his new eyes had been spectacular though. A dancing ring of light containing all of the rhythms, discordant and beautiful piled atop one another. They surrounded a void of such profundity he’d felt certain falling into it would mean annihilation. Fused after fused had blinked out of existence, unhesitating, and he’d followed, the fear of falling all windrunners must overcome reasserting itself when faced with that unnatural depth. He hadn’t ceased though, instead he’d been spat out on the other side, a Heavenly One catching him and setting him down on the ground.

He'd had good work for a while after that, hauling supplies to the new soulcast barracks. Eventually he’d convinced a flustered former-parshman who spoke in a Kholinar accent and wore his warform uncertainly that Jezrian’s blade was the ideal tool for digging latrine pits out of the stone. It wasn’t as good as it had been when Rayse’s protection had allowed him to feel perfectly empty while at work. But a tired body could quiet his mind even without divine help. He’d known it in the caravans, and while training spear and sword. So he’d worked himself until his shirt was sweat soaked and he struggled to lift the blocks of newly cut stone. Then he’d washed and gone to his designated barrack to try to sleep. And it hadn’t worked. There was no rest for him, only memories of the people he’d lost.

He wandered the camp, feeling exhausted but certain that it would be useless to try to sleep again. Eventually he found himself at the edge of a chasm. He considered walking straight off. Not a serious action; he had stormlight. It seemed childish though, so he merely sat on the edge, dangling his legs off the side. Of course, the chasms were even more full of memories than those soulcast barracks. He could almost catch their familiar smell, wafting up. Death-stench mingling with eager new plant life. He wondered what it would feel like to do a spear kata now, and regretted thinking of it as pain that no one would remove twisted inside him.

They’d all betrayed him, betrayed what he’d thought they believed in. Falling in line so easily behind the first lighteyes to cover up his corrupt core with a veneer of honor. He thought he’d found brothers in Bridge Four. He thought after what they’d been through those men would know that the human order was too debased to save. They hadn’t though. Once Bridge Four themselves were safely under Kholin protection, they hadn’t spared a thought for the injustices against darkeyes that were still rampant. They’d chosen to serve a murderer rather than standing by a friend. But he was the only one who saw it that way. Could they all be so wrong, or was there something wrong with him instead?

Neither option made sense. He couldn’t believe he’d been wrong to kill the murderer-king. And he couldn’t ignore how the look of betrayal in Kaladin’s eyes had felt. He couldn’t ignore how anything felt anymore. He prayed again for Odium to take his pain, and again got no response. The new god was firm in his decision, but Moash could still beg. He had no pride left to lose.

He looked down at his own hands, just faintly visible to him since he wasn’t holding stormlight. He saw the blade fuzzing as it entered Teft’s throat, smooth metal against wrinkled skin. Teft had said he died loved. Moash would die alone. If he could have just made them understand he wouldn’t have needed to do it. Teft could be sitting beside him right now. Kaladin could be sitting beside him right now. They could be fighting shoulder to shoulder, bringing justice to the world. To many worlds.

He shook his head slightly, remembering the vision Odium had shown him before remaking his sight. He’d shown them being led by The Blackthorn. Was there no way to escape lighteyed leadership, even by siding with the opponent of their precious Almighty? Moash sighed, missing the clarity Rayse had granted him. Missing the ability to sleep. Now nothing stood between him and the infinite wheel of guilt and rage that said “they betrayed me” then “I betrayed them” endlessly with no conclusion. 

He lay back on the stone, almost enjoying the way it dug into the back of his neck. A reminder that he was here now, not back there. He’d made his choices. He gazed up at the starspren. They usually weren’t visible in the physical realm but he could see all spren now. It was beautiful, and overwhelming. He wished . . . but that was useless.

He realized that someone was approaching from the direction of the camp. Strange. Since Leshwi and Khen had left, no one ever sought him out. The other fused found him useful but weren’t fond of human company. The Regals and ordinary Singers found him intimidating before his eyes were changed, now he suspected they found him grotesque. And humans . . . back in Kholinar they’d thought him a traitor. There were Skybreakers with the force here, but they were cold and focused on the business of the siege. 

The person approaching him now seemed to be a Fused, but something was wrong with their light. Moash rolled over onto his elbow to face them and get a better look. What was it? The light was as bright as the other fused he’d seen, so why did it seem so strange?

“Vyre . . .” the voice was strange too. Deep and resonant like a Singer’s but . . . no rhythms. That’s what was wrong with the light too. It didn’t pulse, dance or flicker, it just glowed steadily, more lifeless than the light of the gemstones in his pouch. Strange.

“El . . .” he said cautiously.

“I see I need no introduction,” El said. It was possible to read amusement in his voice, even without the Singer rhythm, he sounded almost human. He walked past Moash and sat with legs dangling off the side of the chasm. Bold, for someone who didn’t fly.

“I report to Odium, but I’m aware of the command structure.” Moash said, resuming his cliffs-edge seat beside El, studying him out of the corner of his eye. He was tall like most fused, though not a giant like the magnified or focused ones. And his steady light was blocked in places by patterns that looked intentional. What was that?

“And how do you find our new god, you who were so close to Rayse?” El asked, wasting no time on small talk.

Moash realized he’d grown accustomed to Singer rhythms and found their absence slightly uncomfortable. Was he commanded to speak, or was El merely expressing idle curiosity? The setting was informal though, and Singers were more likely to reward honesty than the humans he’d known. “I miss Rayse,” he said, voicing it for the first time. “He understood me. He protected me. Everything made sense when he was alive. This new Odium . . . I admire his purpose, but he will not take my pain and it is hard to bear what I have done and what I have lost.”

“Here, liberated from the Royal Cellars back at Kholinar,” El said, handing him a bottle whose color he could not see, whose label he could not read. Moash took a small swig, probably violet, presumably very good violet. Moash was no lighteyes to judge such things, but it was spicy with a pleasant burn. Unfortunately it reminded him of Graves, another lost friend. “Not as strong as divine assistance, but easier to share,” El continued, plucking the bottle out of Moash’s hand and drinking himself before handing it back.

Moash grunted and took another swig, handing the bottle back again. Before he’d been Unchained, he’d spent time with Singers. Sometimes he’d nearly felt accepted by them. He’d always needed to bend to their ways however. None had ever approached him in such a human manner. This almost felt comfortable and that hurt too, reminding him of what he’d thrown away.  

“And how do you find the new eyes?” El asked. Lifting the bottle to salute them as he handed it back to Moash who realized that perhaps this was not the first bottle El had enjoyed this evening. Still, as crazy Fused went, El was far more pleasant than most, and Moash was sick to death of his own company and the endless tearing of his soul between what he thought was right and the guilt he felt for what he’d done.

“I can see that you have no rhythms,” Moash said, staring into El’s perfectly steady light. It was like nothing he’d seen before with old eyes or new. “All the other fused, their light pulses but yours is still.”

“They were taken from me, for suggesting that humans should not be exterminated,” El said, like it was an opening.

“They punished you for liking us, by making you more like us?” Moash asked.

“I suppose they did,” El said, amused and handed the bottle back.

“Did it work?” Moash asked, smiling slightly.

“Work?” El asked, to no rhythm.

“Your punishment.”

“Oh no,” El said. “I have not reconsidered my admiration for humans, and I enjoy the way my lack of rhythms discomfits my own kind.” His carapace clinked oddly on the glass as he took the bottle back. It sounded wrong for carapace: harder or denser. As he reached to take the bottle Moash let his fingers brush the back of El’s hand and encountered something too cold. Metal, right. Some of the regals had whispered about this. El liked to replace his carapace with metal armor. Human-like indeed.

“Why do you do that, with your carapace?” Moash asked. It seemed a fair question, since El had already opened the topic of body modification.

“Metal is better than carapace in many ways,” El said, answering without answering.

“Does it hurt, when you do it?”

“Did it hurt when they ‘fixed’ your eyes?” El purred.

“Fine, stupid question,” Moash said, looking over at the fused. The way his light was occluded in patterns was mesmerizing, no one else looked like that. It must be something about the metal carapace. The patterns were a bit like the embroidery lighteyes would adorn themselves with, but completely lacking Vorin symmetry. Sinuous and spiky at the same time. He blushed, realizing he’d stared too long and was probably slightly drunk. It was the first time he’d been drunk in a very long time. While he was under Rayse’s protection, he’d had no need for anything else. Since Rayse had died, it hadn’t really occurred to him to try to feel better. He’d never had Teft’s instinct for escape. Storms, if thinking of Graves was bad, remembering the old moss-knuckle was infinitely worse. It had felt so simple when he did it. So necessary, only later did the memories of the good times come back to drown him.

“I’m sorry,” El said, tilting his head to inspect Moash’s face. He realized he was crying. Storms! He was a mess. Well, human tears would be nothing new to this ancient creature.

“Not you. I just remembered . . .” Moash took another swig as the bottle was handed back to him.

“I’ve seen this before,” El said tentatively, “I suppose you wouldn’t know. Rayse’s . . . what did you call it? ‘Protection’? Long ago we learned to regard it as one of his most terrible gifts. The wise among us avoid it at all costs.”

“Terrible?” Moash asked, incredulous. “It was wonderful, I felt nothing. I was free to reach my potential. I was unchained, clear, pure as water. Except . . .”

“Except?” El asked, pouncing like a whitespine.

“Except for Kaladin. I needed . . . I needed him to know that I’d been right. That was the only thing I needed.”

“And did Rayse say it was your fault?” El asked, sympathy laced with an undercurrent of smugness. “That your mind always found its way back to Kaladin?”

“He didn’t exactly say it, but . . . yes. I thought I wasn’t making proper use of his gift. I thought I was failing him.”

“That was always his way. Cut everything else off but leave one single ‘chain’, and of course the cords binding you ever tighter to Rayse. You should be grateful he died,” El said with shocking vehemence.

“Grateful? I couldn’t get out of bed for days.”

“You got out eventually though. Many who have enjoyed Rayse’s ‘protection’ aren’t so lucky. He always removes it in the end, once you’ve served whatever purpose he has for you. If you had succeeded with Stormblessed, he would have relished your agony once he allowed you to feel it,” El said, sounding almost tired.

“That can’t . . .” Moash started, but couldn’t finish the sentence. He’d worshiped Rayse, but it was blatantly obvious that his god was capable of cruelty. El handed the bottle back to him.

“He would have wasted you so carelessly, and for what? A windrunner?” El said, dismissively.

“Kaladin isn’t just any windrunner! He taught us to be men despite being slaves, he saved us when the whole world was determined to crush us,” Moash said, defensive of the man he’d tried to end. Kaladin was an enemy now, but a respected enemy.

“And what did he do once he’d saved you?” El asked slyly.

“He swore fealty to Dalinar Kholin and began to serve the people who’d destroyed both of our families. He protected the king from me, his friend . . .”

“I’ve known so many, windrunners,” El said, making a little flyer with his hand, swooping it before Moash’s face. “So passionate to protect those placed in their care,” his hand darted around a single faintly glowing stone on his knee, “baffled when someone points out that others may also need protection,” he revealed another glowing stone, now his little windrunner darted back and forth uncertainly. “When someone points out that the ones they dote on may be a threat to someone else,” he picked up the first stone and used it to knock the other off his knee, down into the chasm, “they don’t know what to do with themselves.” He ‘landed’ his hand limply on his lap. “For ones who fly so high, they’re terribly shortsighted. But I’m sure your windrunner was different.”

Moash didn’t know how to take this. It felt good to have his own thoughts reflected back at him so clearly, and by one who’d had so long to observe windrunners. But he bristled at the claim that Kaladin could ever be and ordinary member of any group. Kaladin was the center, untouchable by any hand but his own. If he could have just seen what Moash saw maybe they could both know peace. “He was . . . different,” Moash said, tossing his own loose stone down into the chasm behind El’s, waiting to hear the sound.

“Perhaps,” El said, unconvinced, taking another swig of the bottle and handing it back.

The wine didn’t numb him the way Rayse had, but Moash found his focus shifting away from the pain of the past and settling into the present. “Why’d you come out here?” he asked eventually.

“To look at the stars,” El responded, jerking his chin up.

“There’s stars all over the plains, why here?” Moash asked, jabbing a finger at the stone beside him.

“To talk to you of course,” El said, voice lower than before.

“Why?” Moash asked, then ducked his head in shame as he realized an anticipationspren was hopping towards him. Great.

“There have always been humans who side with us,” El said easily. “When they come in groups, their reasons are the reason of the group. The Skybreakers think we have legal authority. The Iriali distrust The Blackthorn. But the individual humans who join: you have individual reasons. Your reasons interest me. It takes passion to defy your culture, to disagree with your friends. I . . . admire you. You interest me.” El said, looking at him intently, placing a palm down on the stone between them.

Moash felt a blush creeping up the side of his neck and hoped it would be invisible in the starlight. Admiration of humans was not the sort of thing the fused admitted to. His eyes were drawn to the places where El’s light was occluded by parts of his metal carapace. It formed a delicate tracery over much of his body. He’d learned enough to suspect it was aluminum, probably embedded in some stronger metal that provided more mundane protection. He wanted to trace the patterns with his fingers.

“Why did you do it?” El asked eventually, cocking his head at Moash’s scrutiny, “betray your friends?”

“I wanted justice,” Moash said, then, more quietly, “or revenge.”

“Did you get it?”

“I did. King Elhokar. Roshone. Even Sadeas is gone to damnation, though that last one wasn’t me,” Moash sighed, unable to stop reaching for the satisfaction he should have felt but didn’t. He’d succeeded, against all odds, and he only felt pain for what he had lost along the way. What he’d thrown away. What he’d killed. Why did it feel so wrong to do what he thought was right?

“Do you regret it?” El asked, reading his tone better than most Singers could.

“I’m not sure. It brought me here,” he said, brushing his fingers along the crystals that crowned him. “But I was right. They deserved to die. And no one I loved could see it. Kaladin couldn’t see it. They abandoned me. They chose the lighteyes over me. But Khen abandoned me too, and Leshwi. Whatever I do, I always lose people. Maybe I’m just not worth sticking around for. Maybe I’m not worth loving.” He said, before he could remember to stop himself. He took another swig of the violet and felt its warmth coil around the emptiness inside him, then handed the bottle back.

“It is hard to watch someone who is under Rayse’s ‘protection’, someone ‘unchained’,” El said carefully, taking a slow sip. “To have their connection to you severed so abruptly. There have been times when I have chosen distance rather than . . . watching that,” the depth of masked pain in his voice was shocking, as though El had grieved the same pattern over and over until it was almost boring, if losing friends could ever become boring.

“What’s it like?” Moash asked, “serving for so long. Serving him for so long?”

“We wear thin. It takes passion and honor to remain whole. Those aren’t even the right words, but they’ve been here so long they even warp the way we think,” El said, slamming a fist into the stone in frustration, his metal carapace striking sparks. “Imagine pain upon pain, loss upon loss, forever, eventually some of us just . . . let go,” he made an explosive gesture with his fingers. “We have lost so many, though thanks to Raboniel’s Gift they need no longer linger in half-life. Those are the kinds of innovations we must be grateful for now,” he sounded tired like he’d run ten thousand bridgeruns. Moash was shocked to feel pity for this creature, who had after all been mortal. Once. Had he asked to become what he was? Or was it like Moash . . . simply taking steps that each made sense until he found himself here?

“How did you do it? How did you stay sane?” Moash asked, wondering if he could make it through even a single lifetime with his sanity intact.

“Me?” El said, sounding amused. “Half of my kind think I am one of the lost ones . . .”

“You’re not though. Obviously. I’ve seen those. You still have . . . purpose? Hope? I’m not sure what, but something,” Moash said.

El made a small pleased sound, then laughed, “is it absurd to crave the approval of mortals? But I can’t trust my own kind anymore, though I love many of them still. And, yes, I like to hear from someone who has seen sanity recently, that I am sane. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Moash said, and took an over-large swig from the bottle to cover his embarrassment.

“Would you like to come meet some others?” El asked tentatively. “I think you have been kept apart from us; from everyone, by Rayse’s ‘protection’. It isn’t good for anyone to be so alone. Many of us still do not understand that allies are allies, whatever skin they wear.” He reached out very slowly towards Moash’s hand, and Moash did not move it away, so El traced a soft line from the middle finger up the wrist. “But others understand better. Come meet them?”

Moash hadn’t been invited in enough times to refuse such an offer lightly. He looked over at El, and felt the echo where his finger had touched, so cautious and gentle. “Ok, sure,” he said, and moved to get up but then his foot slipped and he found himself nearly toppling into the chasm. Before he could lash himself, El grabbed his arm and yanked him back to safety, leaving Moash glowing with stormlight and blushing with embarrassment at his drunken clumsiness.

“Better burn that off,” El said, laughing, pointing at the empty bottle Moash was still holding. “I’d forgotten what lightweights humans are! Your delicate bodies so unsuited to our harsh world,” he said, squeezing Moash’s wrist. “And yet, here you’ve remained for millennia, despite my kind’s best efforts. Almost as though you belong here too.” He released Moash’s hand and turned back towards the warcamp.

Moash followed instructions, burning off the wine as he jogged to catch up with El’s long strides. With the alcohol gone, the pain of what he’d done and what he’d lost was keen again. He remembered nights out drinking with bridge four. The guilty excitement he used to feel when Teft’s always-fragile sobriety slipped yet again. The man had a problem, but he was a lot of fun when he was burning moss. For the first few hours anyways. They were all gone now, unreachable enemies, or dead. He couldn’t forget his final vision of Teft, rising up, radiant. Moash tried to believe he’d sent Teft to a better place. Anyplace would be better than this crem-caked mess of a world, but he couldn’t allow himself such easy release. Teft had clearly wanted to live, his friend had wanted to live. And Moash had sunk a shardblade into his throat, so much harder than cutting stone.

He tried to bring his focus back to the distraction El offered. All of the fused were strange, but El was even stranger for feeling so normal. He was dangerous, all the more so for feeling almost safe. The stillness of his light was mesmerizing, as if it was the unmovable center of a writhing chaotic world. As if it alone could be relied upon not to waver. Eventually they came to a weird outcropping of stone, the kind that dotted the shattered plains in places. Moash couldn’t see it properly. But the windspren deflected their course around a black shape that loomed up ahead, blotting out the stars.

It was easy to spot the doorway though, they’d surrounded it with gemstones. The way Singers did things was always different. Alethi would have placed a lantern full of many spheres (locked of course) by a doorway, giving one bright source of light. Singers though . . . he touched one of the gemstones - it was held in a tiny niche in the stone, easy to remove if he’d wanted to.

“Some Singers say thievery is the most important human trait,” El said, lightly swatting the back of Moash’s hand, his rounded metal “nails” giving the touch more bite than it would have had otherwise. “But you needn’t steal my doorlights, the quartermasters are instructed to give you as many spheres as you require.”

“I didn’t . . . .” Moash said, angrily. “I was just feeling how they were held!”

“Of course” El said, sounding abashed. “I know you weren’t really intending to steal; I was just . . . teasing.”

“I don’t like being teased about that,” Moash grumbled.

“Then I won’t, I’m sorry,” El said, so easily Moash felt foolish for his anger.

“The lighteyes always thought we would steal. It was exhausting to be treated as though we were the ones with no honor, when they were the ones commanding us to sacrifice our lives for their greed. As if any petty theft we might commit could make up for what they took from us without even thinking.”

“It was not always so on other Returns. Humans used to be more . . . equal. Perhaps it is because we were gone so long?” El speculated. “But as for the lights . . . Moiam the Undiscovered will be happy to tell you more than you ever wanted to know about Singer art. Come in. No take your shoes off, leave them here! Do you want to track half the crem of the shattered plains in?” Moash almost objected, but El slipped his own shoes off, making it clear that this was not about darkeyed filth, but simply practical.

Of course the Fused wasn’t living in standardized soulcast barracks. He was living in a . . . cave? Moash trailed his fingers along the stone wall as he followed El down the passageway. It felt gorgeous, unnaturally smooth and soft, not polished to a glassy shine the way an Alethi mason would have done for a highprince. This stone had a texture that reminded him of the seasilk Elhokar used to wear for sleep. It made him wish he’d removed his socks too, did the floor feel the same? He’d always liked textures, but with his sight changed they’d become more prominent. He thought he’d look foolish trying to remove his socks while walking down the hallway though, so he left them on.

Gemstone niches snaked up and down the walls of the passage. He wondered which ordinary singer was tasked with keeping those infused, it must take hours to change them. It was beautiful though, the light’s rhythms alternating in complex patterns that didn’t repeat but which had an order to them nonetheless. It reminded him of something he couldn’t place.

The passage opened out into a wide room, bright with several fused and innumerable gemstones in wall niches. Some of them lounged disconcertingly inside the stone, giving Moash vertigo as he momentarily expected the ground to drop out from under his feet. Deepest Ones. The other brands were harder to distinguish upon first inspection, except of course the Focused One whose looming bulk dwarfed everyone else. Now that those were finally awakening, the scale of singer architecture made more sense to Moash.

“So that’s where you snuck off to, leader,” said one of the Deepest Ones, speaking to the rhythm of amusement as she lifted herself gracefully out of the stone to clap El on the shoulder. “Fetching that very interesting human. You never change.” Moash could understand the ancient singer tongue and speak well for someone without rhythms. Rayse had done something that connected him, which apparently hadn’t worn off, unlike his ‘protection’.

“We’ve only been here half a day and already our hallway is gaudier than the great hall back in Kholinar,” El said, taking her by both hands and kissing her on the cheek. “His name’s Vyre,” he said, his human-style chuckle sounding strange against the ancient singer words, even to Moash’s ear. “And this is Moiam the Undiscovered herself,” El said, turning to Moash. “Vyre was admiring your handywork.” There was obviously something funny that Moash didn’t understand about the name he’d been given.

“Pleased to meet you, ancient one,” Moash said, Alethi-style politeness sounding even more inappropriate in the dawnchant than El’s rhythmless laughter had.

“In this place, call me Moiam,” she said, taking his hand briefly, her fingers as smooth as the stone she’d evidently shaped.

“It’s beautiful, the . . . stonework. You did all of this today?”

“Not alone,” she said, gesturing at the other fused. A party of humans this size would have made a low din, the chatting of the fused made an almost cohesive song, their rhythms coalescing and then diverging again. “After thousands of years, we have learned to make ourselves comfortable quickly on campaign. It is a way of remembering what we fight for,” she said to the rhythm of the lost.

“Ah . . .” Moash said, disconcerted. There was a strange camaraderie among these fused that he’d never seen among the powerful before. It felt nothing like the lighteyed gatherings he’d sometimes guarded for Dalinar, where every conversation held a sparring match hidden just below the surface. Nor did it feel like the other meetings of the fused he’d attended since with their rigid insistence on precedence and procedure.

“Now that we’re safely away from the chasms, I’ll get you some more wine . . .” El said before wandering off, leaving Moash standing awkwardly with Moiam. He’d never been good at small talk, with humans or singers, and he had no idea what to say to a fused at a . . . party?

“You see investiture?” Moiam said to the rhythm of craving. 

“Yes . . . and spren . . .”

“Wonderful! I almost wish, but color . . . oh no, you’re missing half of what I did in the hallway, but you liked it anyways?”

“It’s mesmerizing,” he said. The fused had never behaved much like lighteyes, but they tended to have a certain imperiousness, even lower-ranked ones like Leshwi. None had ever cared for his opinion of their art. “Who keeps the gemstones lit?” he blurted out, before he could stop himself.

“What do you mean?” she asked to the rhythm of curiosity. Did these use both new and old rhythms then?

“It’s just . . . the servant who does it, it’s a lot more work than dumping a bunch of spheres in a lantern.”

“I wouldn’t use servants for this. That would miss the point,” she said to the rhythm of conceit.

“Oh.” Moash said, more confused than before, but relieved. “How do you make them? Can I see?” he asked, surprising himself with his boldness.

“Not lightly,” Moiam said. “But easily. Here . . .” she took his hand and guided him to the end of one of the lines. “I have made all of mine, but you may add one if you will. Think of someone you have lost. Tell me who and when and how.”

“Oh,” said Moash, taken aback. He first thought of his grandparents, but he realized he’d laid them to rest with Elhokar. That burden at least was gone. “Teft . . .” he said. “My friend, my brother. I killed him,” you could say this sort of thing to the fused and they would understand. “I killed him to try to destroy Kaladin on Odium’s orders, and it didn’t work. Kaladin lives and Teft died for nothing.”

“Good,” she said to the rhythm of appreciation, “it should be around here but you pick the exact spot.”

Moash looked at the whole composition for a minute and then put his finger down, a little further from the rest of the line, breaking the pattern, but the pattern itself was so subtly chaotic it felt right to pile his own chaos on top.

“I see why El likes you,” Moiam whispered to the rhythm of satisfaction, covering his hand with hers then displacing his finger with her own so it was exactly where his had been. “Put your hand on mine, so you can feel,” she said. He did it, and she pressed into the stone, as easily as if it was his grandmother’s pastry. But then somehow she used nails to make the depression as sharp and exact as his pain. “Now tell me a good memory of him.”

Moash thought for a while, “After Dalinar bought us, and we were training the other bridgecrews as guards, Teft and I wanted to play good sergeant/bad sergeant with the teams we were training. But we couldn’t decide who should be which. Teft was wonderfully cranky, but I have this face. It’s worse now, but even before the eyes it was not . . . inviting. So we decided to test out which way worked better with different teams. But we didn’t realize that the teams would be comparing notes. So here they were, eating their stew together, complaining how the old sergeant was a real bastard but you could count on the young one to help you out and then the other team saying ‘no, it’s the young one who’s so strict he yells if you’ve got your spear half an inch too far to the right and the old one who tells you all the tricks about how it’s really done!’

I thought we were cooked and they’d never fear or trust either of us again. But Teft rounded them all up and had them vote on which one of us was better at being the stickler. I ‘won’ so I got to be bad sergeant from then on for everyone. Teft was good at people, he knew it would work just as well even if they kindof knew it was an act, and it did. They feared me and trusted him and they learned fast.”

He felt a swell of pride at the memory, until he remembered that he'd be expected to kill as many of those men as he could in the coming days. Most of them would have become windrunner squires by now. El had wandered back while Moash told the story and handed him a cup of something which turned out to be horneater white. He sipped it gratefully, willing it to banish the guilt and dread.

 Moiam had been rummaging in her pockets while she listened, examining one gemstone, then another. Finally she was satisfied and held one out to Moash, “does this feel right? For Teft?” she asked to the rhythm of craving.

The stone pulsed steadily, but with a certain sharpness. It was obviously stormlight though the hallway had contained a mixture of stormlight and voidlight. “Yeah,” he said thickly, realizing he was crying.

“Good, put it in and say words to him, in your head or aloud as you choose,” she said to the rhythm of the lost.

Moash slid the stone into its spot and covered it with his hand. I’m sorry Teft. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry even though I would do it again. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay on your side. I hope you’re somewhere better, though I know you would have rather stayed here. I wish we could have lived as brothers in a world that wasn’t broken. He found himself fully sobbing, resting his head against the stone wall. Both El and Moiam placed palms on his back without speaking, Moiam humming the rhythm of the lost. Eventually he left the wall and wiped his face on his sleeve.

“Shall we make a niche for Jezrien too?” Moiam asked to the rhythm of thoughtfulness, turning towards El.

“I grieved him long ago,” El said.

“But now he’s dead.”

“Another day, I will not overshadow Vyer’s grief with my own.”

Moash felt a pang of discomfort at that name now, and he wasn’t certain why. He’d accepted it easily enough, but now it seemed to fit badly. “Are they all . . . people? The dead?” he asked looking back at the gemsone lined hallway.

“Yes,” Moiam said. “Most are mine, but anyone may add who they wish, with my help or on their own.”

“So many!”

“We have lived long.” she said to the rhythm of remembrance.

Moash rubbed his thumb over Teft’s stone. It didn’t help at all and also it did. Teft, his memory of Teft, his grief for Teft had a place now. He could go to it; he could picture it. It was no longer everywhere. Of course his memories still clung to other things. The horneater white in his cup was a Teft kind of smell. Practice with the sword, or storms take him the spear would be full of Teft. But he was here now, less likely to leak all over everything.

“I don’t deserve it.” He said, rubbing his thumb on Teft’s stone again.

“Why not?” Moiam asked, attuning the rhythm of spite.

“I killed him. He deserves to haunt me. I don’t deserve to set him down.”

She caught his jaw, lightning quick as they could be sometimes, and turned his head back down the hall. Hundreds, maybe thousands of lights snaked back, “How many of them do you think I killed?” she asked, to the rhythm of agony.

“I don’t . . .” he started to say, and then put it together. “All of them.”

“All of them,” she said, to the rhythm of mourning.

“You enjoy that too much,” El said. “Springing it on them that way.”

“Do I have so many joys I should forgo this one?” Moiam asked switching abruptly to the rhythm of amusement.

“And you call me the pervert!” El said.

“Takes one to know one stormling,” Moiam said to the rhythm of tribute.

Moash was certain he was missing about six thousand years of context. He wondered why El had brought him here, where he understood so little. He almost wanted to take himself away, leave them to their old jokes. But El touched his hand.

“It was brave to choose him. Many choose someone safer.”

“How often do I get an ancient chortana to help ease my pain? I won’t waste the opportunity,” he said, bowing to Moiam. Hoping she would take chortana for the compliment it was. His connection hadn’t translated his grandma’s old Herdazinan word and there was no Alethi equivalent.

“You’re welcome Moash,” she said to the rhythm of conceit.

“Oh,” he said. “Yes. Moash. Can I be Moash again?” he was afraid to hope, but her light was so mesmerizing it felt possible to try.

“You are who you want to be,” she said to the rhythm of satisfaction. “You still answer to ‘Vyer’ when Odium calls though,” she added, changing to the rhythm of thoughtfulness.

It settled on him in a way it hadn’t before. Because he’d been too hurt, or too self-absorbed to notice. They’d worked for Odium for millennia. They’d lived with him in their gemhearts. They knew him. They knew him more intimately than the Heralds knew Honor, because Honor was dead. Or . . . they had known him. Now they’d . . . they’d lost him and they had a new one. For the first time in longer than he could imagine. And these ones were having a party.

It’s suddenly way too much. Rayse had protected him from all of this. From understanding any of this. And now here he was and it was all so alien. As soon as he’d chosen the Singers, or maybe once his choice became irrevocable, with Elhokar’s death, Rayse had started shielding him, dampening him. And he just hadn’t thought. There was so much he didn’t understand. And he’d made such a mess of navigating the human world. He shook his head as if that would clear it. “I . . . I need.”

El took his hand, in the one without the metal. “Do you want to go back out, or further in. You don’t look ready to meet everyone. It’s ok.”

“Further in?”

“To the other rooms, for rest . . .”

Moash thought. He thought of the cool breeze outside, and the smell of the chasms. And he imagined going deeper into this cave with its strange beautiful lights of the dead. And he thought his guilt must be a pinprick compared to what these ones felt. Because he could suddenly see that they felt it, all of it. And they went on, because they believed it was right? Or for some other reason he didn’t understand? Maybe they could show him how to live with it too.

“Further in. They won’t mind if I don’t . . . stay to talk?”

“They’ve seen everything,” El said, echoing his thought. “You can’t shock or offend them. They will tease, but you can ignore it, or tease them back if you’re brave enough.”

Moiam had been watching them. She said something in a language so archaic Moash didn’t understand it, though he thought it was to something like the rhythm of conceit. El answered shortly in the same language and she punched him on the arm and walked away.

“Then follow me,” El said, as he turned to lead Moash into the main room.

“Not going to introduce us to your human?” the focused one said to the rhythm of ridicule.

“Not tonight, and he’s not my human,” El said offhanded.

Moash wondered how to take this. It was obviously offensive to be called ‘El’s human’, reminiscent of being ‘Sadeas’ Bridgeman’. He thought the implication was probably quite different here, though still offensive. Or presumptuous. At least El had corrected them.

El lead him down another corridor, much more sparsely lit in a way that was calming. He pushed a curtain aside to enter a room with so little life or investiture it is difficult for Moash to navigate, so he stopped still. “I can’t really see in here, only the gemstones on the wall.”

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” El asked.

“No, just . . . show me where to sit?”

El did better, placing more gemstones around the edges of the room, making it easier for Moash to understand the space. “Stay there for now, I’ll just unroll the mattresses. You look exhausted by the way. When was the last time you slept?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t slept well since Rayse died,” Moash said, suddenly concerned that he couldn’t count how many days that had been.

“Of course. And no one did anything about that?” El said, crouching to unroll something, the patterns on his back shifting with the motion.

“What could they have done?”

“Any number of things. But you’re here now. Here’s your bed, get in, I’ll leave for a little while to give you privacy.”

Moash fingered the collar of his uniform jacket. “I’m staying here now?”

“You can go back to the Skybreaker barracks if you think you’ll sleep better there.”

Moash knew he emphatically wouldn’t sleep better in the Skybreaker barracks, he even saw some fearspren approaching as he thought of it. Now that he apparently had another option, he really didn’t want to go back there. “Why are you doing all of this? Why talk to me, why help me?” Moash asked, beginning to undo his jacket buttons.

“Someone should,” El said, almost angrily.

“I would obey him anyways, I have nowhere else to go,” Moash said.

“When he asks me, I’ll tell him the obedience of having no other choices is a bad sort of obedience. But for you: I don’t like to see him break his tools. Most of my kind feel that way about one another, and we try to help the mortal singers of course. But some of us feel that way about humans too. So when we see him taking an undue interest, we intervene if we can. I can’t stop what he will use you for, that is too important in his plans. But I can help you with the aftermath, if you’d like. I’ve done it many times before.”

“So it’s altruism?” Moash asked, slightly disappointed for reasons he wasn’t ready to look at quite yet.

“It’s . . .” El said, walking out of the room but continuing to speak through the curtain. “I was friends with Jezrien. I know how your world was lost. Perhaps staying connected to humans is my way of trying to maintain hope each return.”

“What was he like, Jezrien?” Moash asked as he folded his uniform jacket and placed it at the foot of his bed.

“Mostly he was very sad,” El said. “When I knew him. The loss of his world was fresh in his heart, and he felt such guilt for his part in that. I used to wonder what I could have done differently, so that we needn't have been on opposite sides. But they were determined to fight, so perhaps all efforts at peace were doomed. How can two peoples find peace when their very gods are at war? I curse the day any of them came to Roshar, by stone! What could have been if they had meddled in another world and left us all alone?” he asked.

“Befriending me won’t help you make peace with humans. I’m a traitor.” Moash said, stepping out of his trousers.

“This isn’t a coherent political strategy. This is more about, remembering that we are . . . compatible. That this war doesn’t have to continue forever. That someday, some of us will be good enough to stop it, if we don’t let the gods kill us all first.”

“But why me specifically? The camp’s got plenty of Skybreakers,” Moash wasn’t sure why he was pushing this point. He placed his folded shirt on top of the jacket and pants and slid into the bed. It was, of course, far more comfortable than the cot. “You can come back,” he called.

“They’re not broken like we are,” El said, coming back into the room and folding down gracefully onto the other mattress. “You understand in small measure what we are and what we have done. What I am and what I have done. The Skybreakers feel that their souls are untarnished. They’re useful, but not interesting.”

“You like me because I am a traitor? Because I killed my brother?”

“I like you because you made the hard choice. I can’t say if it was the right choice. Who can say what is right or wrong when the gods themselves are so wrong. But . . . what you did with the king was brave and admirable, even if it was wrong. I said it on the cliffside. I like people who make hard choices, I find them interesting. And I also would like to help you be ok, after what Rayse did to you, and what the new Odium will do to you. It helps to have friends to bear it alongside you.”

“I know,” Moash said quietly, thinking of bridge four and Khen and Sah. “But they all leave.”

“Don’t talk to an immortal about people leaving,” El said, a slight edge tinging his voice.

 “I’m sorry . . . it must . . . I can’t imagine.”

“Would you like to?” El asked.

“If you want to tell me,” Moash said.

“The worst part for us is always our bodies . . .” El said, running his hand up his chest.

“Your bodies?”

“You know how fused are returned?” El asked, laying on his side on his mattress, propped on one elbow, his red eyes on Moash.

“You take the bodies of singer volunteers,” Moash said, thinking about some of the implications. Could there be enough real volunteers for this? Or was it more like the bridge crews? He made a face.

“Most of them really do volunteer,” El said, “though we all know that their choice is not exactly free. The first few returns we were so careful. Only the ones who really knew what it meant. Only the ones who’d been given other options. Now, well . . . those of us who make the selections, they’ve lost some of their capacity to care. And of course none of the rest of us are eager to take over that grim duty. If we are still active after the deadline, perhaps the new Odium will be willing to make modifications. He seems saner than Rayse was.

But even when things are as fair as possible, it is . . . disturbing to wear another’s body. We mostly subsume them, but there are always small echoes. This body likes more spice than I’m used to. I suppose he was raised on Alethi food. And he has scars on his back, unusual for a parshman slave. I am told they were very obedient. Why would one be whipped? Was his old master cruel for no reason, or did he manage defiance even in slave form? I can never ask because my presence sent his soul to the beyond,” El said, rolling onto his back and talking to the ceiling. He didn’t sound angry, only very sad and very tired.

“Is there no other way? Could you take ones who have already died? Or . . .” Moash asked.

“Raboniel used to be obsessed with that. She never figured out how to make it work in a way that wasn’t crueler than the current process and eventually they convinced her to stop. There is of course a way of thinking: if we are already fighting an endless war with endless casualties, does it make a difference if we wait for our soldiers to die before claiming their bodies as our own? A certain number will die regardless, and eviction by a fused is less painful than most battlefield deaths I’ve witnessed.”

Moash hadn’t had millennia to grow accustomed to this, he opened his mouth to argue that it was monstrous, that there must be a better way, then he closed it again. He could taste El’s sorrow. It wasn’t his place to add to it. “And you have no choice, when you return?”

“No,” El said. “You’ve seen. Fused with no more mind left return anyways. Those of us who can still think . . . most of us have tried not to come when we feel the pull, at one time or another. I have tried a few times. It is not easy to describe sensations that one has without a body. But one can do something a bit like gripping with a spirit, to resist the pull. I have felt my spirit stretched between Braize and Roshar, until it was finer than thread. Eventually the part clinging to Braize becomes too weak and you find yourself forced into the body of some poor singer regardless.”

“Why does it all have to be so awful?” Moash asked, “it was awful on my side too, though our highprinces didn’t literally wear the bodies they destroyed. The Alethi were always good at insulating those in power from the cruelty they caused. There were about four layers of organization between Sadeas and the bridgecrews. He never had to think of us as individuals. At least not until Kaladin.”

“Honor always loved hierarchy. He would have liked the Alethi, I suppose that’s why we are fighting Dalinar instead of the Azish Prime. But hide the cruelty, or revel in it, or try to rationalize it somehow, both sides have always been cruel.”

“Is there a way to stop it?” Moash asked, the darkness and the horneater white both making him feel mellow and dreamy. He wondered what the mattress was made of, it was a Singer design, denser and softer than lavis husks. He let his eyes drop closed.

“We haven’t found one in six thousand years. Some of us haven’t stopped looking. But this is not the time to speak of that possibility.”

“How do we live until then?” Moash mumbled.

“Find what joy we can. Try to ease each other’s pain when it’s possible.”

“That wasn’t Kaladin’s answer.”

“He’s young enough to have hope that things can change quickly. I’ve seen thousands like him burn and fade. I’ve had to find a quieter way to hope. You’ll have to find your own way. But sleep now.”

Remarkably, finally, Moash did.

[Art by basket-of-radiants <3 ]

[ID: Moash and El sitting on the edge of a chasm in the shattered planes, dangling their legs down into the abyss, sharing a bottle of Violet wine. Moash wears a brown uniform, his head crowned with crystals, his eyes glowing violet. El wears gray, his spikes resplendent, his posture relaxed.]

Chapter Text

Day 6 of the Final 10 Days

El was gone when Moash woke up. He was surprised to realize he’d slept through the night and actually felt refreshed. The cave was quiet and mostly empty but for a pair of deepest ones sleeping in the stone floor of the main room. He blushed and shook his head when he realized he was staring at the way they were entwined together beneath the stone. The new eyes’ ability to see some hidden things was hard to get used to.

He’d earned a dry mouth and a headache from his night drinking, but he still felt better than he had since Rayse’s death. On the way out to the mess hall, he paused to touch Teft’s stone, remembering how extra-grumpy Teft used to get when hungover and how his mood would improve if you brought him a sweet ridgebark drink from the shop by the camp entrance. “Be somewhere good,” he muttered as he left, halfway between an order and a prayer.  

He threw on a cloak and headed out into the drizzle. The plains smelled amazing: damp stone and crushed foliage. The plants seemed to glow more brightly as they soaked in the extra water, tendrils flailing to catch every drop. He wasn’t looking forward to spending the day out in it though. At least the Everstorm was less oppressive than the weeping. The flashes of red lightning -- seemingly chaotic as Odium’s rhythms yet unified and purposeful. He couldn’t tell if the Everstorm rain itself was slightly invested, or if the abundance of rainspren standing in puddles just made it easier to track the ground. He splashed as he strode down the path.

Soon he was smelling the mess hall rather than the plains; smoke and the sweetness of roasting cremlings. He wondered what Rock would think of singer food. It wasn’t much like bridgeman stew, but they shared a love of eating the shells and used even less spice. When Moash had complained to Leshwi about how bland it was, she told him to pay more attention to the texture. He tried to: the shattering crunch of carapace surrounding the soft springy flesh inside. He still added pepper sauce when he could find it though.

This morning though, some absolute genius had made a drink that was both sweet and savory -it even had a spicy kick. “Who made this?” he asked, halfway through guzzling his second cup. He was late to breakfast so things weren’t crowded and the cooks would have time for him.  

“I did. You like it, human?” said a nimbleform, the rhythm of amusement sounding slightly odd over a thick Kholinar accent. Even before the eyes, Moash had been recognizable, now calling him ‘human’ was either an insult or a joke.

“You use spice like an Alethi, singer. It’s very good, thank you.”

“I’m as Alethi as you are with that hair,” she said, to the rhythm of annoyance.

“Of course,” Moash said, embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. I was just thinking the Fused don’t like spice the way we do.”

“You’re not wrong, I’ve got a bland batch on the other side for our ancient leaders and the faint of heart. You want your food Alethi-style too, Vyre?” she asked, switching back to the rhythm of amusement.

“Yes please! But it’s hardly fair that you know my name and I don’t know yours,” he said, looking up at her. She was already tall and her hairstrands were elaborately braided into arcing curves that made her seem to tower even higher.

“And is fairness something you value, human?” she asked, the rhythm of skepticism pulsing through her form as she wiped her hands on her apron.

Moash sighed. It was a thing he had been asked by many Awakened Singers. He didn’t like it. While he’d commanded a few parshmen in the caravans, he was hardly to blame for the enslavement of their entire people. But he’d learned from Khen that arguing the point was not the way to make friends. “I won’t claim I was agitating for parshemen rights before the Everstorm. I didn’t understand what you were, I didn’t suspect. Now that I know, I apologize for my part in it and fight alongside you.” He used to end this speech with ‘is that enough?’, but he’d found he was better off without. It wasn’t enough, and it was all he could do now, best not to get into a debate about that part.

“Very well, Vyre. I’m Ketis, I’ll get your food,” she said to the rhythm of reconciliation. Her name was interesting, neither a monosyllabic slave name, nor an ancient singer’s name. It reminded him of something a high-nahn darkeyes might be called. She returned with his food and after complimenting her again, he took his tray towards an empty table.

“Vyre, over here!” boomed a focused one to the rhythm of command, she was seated in the section that was scaled for the larger Fused, with one much smaller companion. He thought they’d probably been at the party the night before, though he hadn’t gotten good at recognizing individuals quickly with the new eyes yet.

“If you break his heart I’ll break your bones,” the focused one said once he was seated across from her. He was too shocked, and his mouth was too full of searingly spicy grilled cremling to respond immediately so she clarified: “Each and every bone in your body, I’ll listen to the sound they make as they snap.”

“You won’t be able to hear it over the screaming,” her smaller companion said to the rhythm of ridicule.

“I’ll gag him first,” said the focused one, to the rhythm of spite.

Moash resisted the urge to rush, chewing carefully and washing the bite down with Ketis’s drink. When he could speak without coughing he asked, “Will you tell me your names, and what I’ve done to earn threats?” The best approach with crazy Fused, or any Fused actually, was to play along politely.

“Agash, the Unrelenting,” said the focused one. “And this is Lezriel the Painted. And you haven’t done anything to earn the threats, yet. If you’d already done it I’d already be snapping your joints out of their sockets.”

“Oh now you’re making the plan more complicated,” Lezriel complained, resting her entire back and head against Agash’s bulk, stretching her legs out along the bench. The top of her head barely reached Agash’s shoulder.

“And whose heart must I not break?” Moash asked. He could guess the answer himself if these Fused were a regular amount of crazy, but it was always possible that they would accuse him of threatening the heart of someone long dead or entirely imaginary, so it made sense to clarify.

“El’s of course, are you stupid too?” Lezriel asked, to the rhythm of ridicule.

Crazy enough to make florid threats, sane enough to make them about real situations. The most dangerous type of Fused.

Great.

It was useless to argue that he didn’t deserve responsibility for El’s heart after sharing no more than a bottle of violet and an utterly chaste night of sleep. Equally useless to deny that she could break his bones, he’d seen focused ones punch through city walls: she could break his bones. He almost prayed to Odium for protection again, the Fused had treated him with more deference when he’d been numb. But it was too late for that, he didn’t really want to be blank anymore. “I don’t intend to break his heart,” he said mildly.

“You always do though,” Agash said to the rhythm of conceit.

“You mean other humans?”

“You always leave. Either you die or you leave even before that,” Agash said, to the rhythm of resentment.

“You can break my bones after I’m dead if it will make you feel better,” Moash tried.

“Oh I will, and you won’t stop me.”

“Certainly not,” Moash said, amused despite himself.

“And before you’re dead . . .?” Agash asked to the rhythm of skepticism.

“I think I’d rather discuss it with El before making any promises to you.”

“I told you they hadn’t yet,” Lezriel said, yawning. “He looked dead on his feet last night, but he’s quite well-rested this morning.”

Agash hummed to the rhythm of thoughtfulness, “Maybe it’s better this way. Be careful what you start with him, he is precious to many of us.”

Moash didn’t say anything for a while, just stared at the pair of Fused, their inner light pulsing to different rhythms, clashing harmoniously. He had walked the knife’s edge of lighteyed approval before, and fallen right into the bridgecrews. He wondered if he should back away now, stay in the Skybreaker barracks and do his best to avoid El’s notice. It would be the smart thing. He didn’t really feel like trying to be smart though.

He turned her words over and looked at the other side. He was worth threatening. The prospect of being important enough to El that his friends would get protective made something inside him that had been asleep since he’d fled with Graves twist and leap. He smiled, slightly.  

“He doesn’t look like he’s going to be careful,” Agash complained, but to the rhythm of amusement.

“Are they ever?” Lezriel responded, to the rhythm of conceit.

“The good ones aren’t,” Agash said to the rhythm of resignation.

“Shouldn’t you be breaking some walls?” he asked Agash, feeling emboldened rather than intimidated now.

“My team goes this afternoon,” she said to the rhythm of anticipation.

“And you?” Moash asked, turning towards Lezriel.

“I’ll be working with you,” she said to the rhythm of curiosity, her light shifting subtly. “Finish eating and we can go discuss our orders with El.”

--------

The command building was another soulcast loaf like the barracks. Even in a building full of Fused, El’s unpulsing lacy light drew Moash’s eye like a beacon. He tried to remember that he was here to receive orders. Probably difficult ones. His steps quickened anyways, outpacing Agash and Lezriel to reach El at the far end of the open room. He was standing beside a large round table, but Moash couldn’t make out whatever it contained.

“You look better,” El said softly, inclining to face Moash for a long moment. Then the others arrived and he continued in a louder voice, “So how do you think we can use an Honorbearer with the ability to see radiant spren and a unique history with the Windrunners?”

Moash swallowed, trying not to feel disappointed about moving on to business so quickly.

“Bait and assassin,” Agash said, clapping him crushingly on the shoulder before kissing the top of Lezriel’s head and heading off towards another corner of the command building.

“Indeed,” El said. “Others will breach walls and destroy armies. Your job is to kill as many radiant spren as you can.”

Moash paused a while, looking at El’s unmoving light. “You want me to fight my old friends. Just like Rayse, but without the protection he gave me.”

“I do,” El said expectantly.

Moash stared at El, but the faces of Bridge Four swam in his eyes. This had been so easy when Rayse lived. Of course he had known in the back of his mind that he would be doing something like this when they sent him here. The new Odium had called him a weapon after all. It still felt bad to receive these orders from El’s lips. Moash nodded.

“Focus on the Windrunners. While the other radiants are valuable, denying the enemy air support is crucial.”

“Of course,” Moash said, feeling cold.

El cocked his head, “I am sorry.”

He wanted to break down. Say he couldn’t do it, not without Rayse. But he remembered watching the Awakened Singers move out of the slave huts and into the houses of Kholinar. He remembered watching a singer child laying down in a proper bed for the first time, her eyes going wide as her little hand tested the softness. He was fighting to make Roshar safe for the people who had been slaves for centuries. Fighting so that the people who had labored to build the wonders of Alethkar could be allowed to enjoy them.

Bridge Four were good men, but they were fighting to keep the lighteyes in power. If they won, the singers would be forced out, perhaps forced back into slavery. What he needed to do would hurt, but it was worth doing. “It’s . . . I knew it would be like this,” he sighed.

El paused for a moment, perhaps on the verge of offering comfort, but changed his mind. “For today, you’ll be working with Lezriel. She can lightweave you into a Heavenly One and you can survey the battlefield and report what you learn of the enemy forces. If you have the opportunity to strike down an honorspren, do so. But don’t risk yourself today, you’re too valuable to risk without a proper plan,” he said. Was Moash imagining it or had El given ‘valuable’ a special emphasis?

Moash turned to examine Lezriel. The rhythm of her light abruptly changed to something especially rapid and disjointed and its glow expanded well beyond the edges of her body. Moash raised an eyebrow but made no other response.

“He can’t see it!” Lezriel said to the rhythm of fury.

“Very disappointing,” El said. “For what it’s worth, that is absolutely disgusting. The rendering of the organs is so . . . accurate.”

“I found a human surgeon back in Kholinar who will let me watch. It’s amazing what they’ve learned how to do without investiture!” she said to the rhythm of tribute as her light returned to normal.

“They’re a remarkable species, I’ve always said so,” El said, looking in Moash’s direction. But Moash couldn’t find a clever response. His mind kept returning to the question of which member of Bridge Four he would need to face.

---------

Moash soared over the chasms, hand in hand with Lezriel; she lightwove him and he lashed her. It had taken some practice to master the stately flight of the heavenly ones, but they’d managed it eventually. The trick was not to think in terms of lashings and half lashings but to go smaller. An eighth of a lashing, or a sixteenth, to send them slowly drifting in their desired direction.

At first Lezriel kept up a constant low mutter of invective that her lightweaving would be wasted on a man who flew like a moss-addled chull, but as he grew smoother, she changed to the rhythm of appreciation. “You learn quickly, and I will not say ‘for a human’ because our friend and commander is correct, humans learn all too quickly. How did you accomplish all of that,” she said, gesturing in the direction of far off Kholinar, “while you were ignorant of the surges?”

“I donnow,” Moash said, feeling out of his depth. “We were just trying to survive the highstorms, I guess. And of course we had soulcasters and shardblades.”

“You did not construct the drainage system with soulcasters and shardblades.”

“I did not construct the drainage system at all. I don’t really know how it was done.”

“And what do you know?”

“Fighting, running caravans, a little silversmithing from my grandparents, though I never took up the trade myself. Couldn’t stand to be cooped up inside with all of those fiddly little tools.”

“Ah, so you’re not one of the smart humans,” she said to the rhythm of thoughtfulness.

“I guess not,” Moash said, unable to work up the energy to be offended. They were approaching the battlefield and he was starting to feel nervous about what he would find. Would he even be able to recognize his old friends with the new eyes? What if they saw through the lightweaving? He was confident he could beat any member of Bridge Four besides Kaladin in a fair fight, but he’d barely trained since Urithiru.

“Stop it, you’re drawing anxietyspren,” Lezriel hissed. Sure enough they were snaking towards him, cross shaped heads trailed by a long helical tail. He tried to find the coldness that Rayse had given him. Pick the stone up, feel its weight. Walk the path from the quarry to the palace. Do it again, and again, and again. The anxietyspren lost interest and zoomed back towards Narak prime. But as he watched them depart he realized he recognized exactly who they were headed for. Sigzil.

He paused in the air, transfixed. Sigzil was one tiny figure of pulsing stormlight among many, and yet Moash recognized him. Maybe it was the way he moved, or the ultra steady beat of his light. His spren darted around him, enveloped in fluttering cloth that seemed to move in a wind of her own. He studied the man, the way he would use pauses in his own fighting to dart down and talk with a Stoneward, or fiddle with a fabrial on his wrist. Since Kaladin wasn’t here (their intelligence that he was in Shinovar of all places was apparently correct), would Sigzil be in command? He squinted, trying to take in the flow of the battle, but he couldn’t parse it. The chaos of so many radiants and Fused was too much. He had no experience trying to read something like this.

“That man,” he said to Lezriel, pointing. “The Windrunner the Azish one who moves with such care - does it look like he’s in command to you?”

She hummed to the rhythm of consideration. “Good chance, but I can’t be certain in all of that. Their true commander could be off the field like ours, but he is certainly making important decisions.”

“Huh,” Moash said, feeling a strange mixture of pride and regret. If Sigzil really was in command no one deserved it more, and he was satisfied to think it wasn’t some brightlord. But he felt an irrational sense of abandonment to see that the bridgeman who’d shared his own early skepticism of Kaladin had discarded it so completely to rise through the ranks. What would Sigzil think of their mission here? Probably that he was fighting on the right side, saving Roshar from the Voidbringers. Moash covered his face with his hand, earning a jab from Lezriel.

“You’re an ancient singer, not a human adolescent. Have some decorum!”  

They continued their survey, Moash making note of everyone he recognized, mostly Windrunners. He was exhausted by the time they returned to the command building. He hung up his drenched cloak and walked over to join El at the same table, his posture somehow frayed, though he hadn’t so much as visited the battlefield. “Good, you’re safe,” El said, partially rising to push out a chair for Moash.

He sat down with a sigh, feeling uneasy. El’s tone drew him closer but his body language made it clear that this meeting was to be about battle strategy.

“What can you tell me of who we are fighting?” El asked.

Moash began to narrate what he had seen, Lezriel providing occasional clarifications. He’d expected this meeting to be short, but it soon became clear that El wanted much more detail from him than Rayse ever had. It was more exhausting than the flight itself, he wanted to know everything Moash could remember about Sigzil, Skar, Leyten, Lopen and his various cousins. Rayse had been content with Moash’s claims that Kaladin was the linchpin of Bridge Four and his destruction would be enough to throw them into chaos. Now though, Kal was out of the fighting, so the character of the others needed to be understood. Or that was what El thought.

Once El had stripped him of his memories of the Windrunners present, he tried to engage Moash in an analysis of their weaknesses. It felt worse than scheming to bring down Kaladin himself. That had been a battle of wills with a worthy adversary. He’d never really believed he could bring Kaladin down, and he’d been right (though he still wondered what would have happened if the Pursuer had listened to his instructions). Telling El that Leyten was a middling fighter who would really rather be taking inventory felt like a more intimate betrayal. And by the time they got into the arcane kinship rules that seemed to make half of Herdaz into Lopen’s cousins, Moash thought he might despise El.

When El finally let him go, drained of every scrap of Bridge Four knowledge, he was so desperate to leave that he forgot his cloak. The new Odium would tell him to embrace these emotions, but this wasn’t righteous fury against injustice that could spur him to action. Instead it was a sick sense of uncertainty. Not about his place in the war, he would keep fighting to help the Singers regain their world, there was no question about that. But about whether he could feel safe with someone who would ask him what Sigzil said in his sleep. He knew it was irrational. Using all the intelligence available saved lives, it was the best way to end the conflict quickly. And yet, it made him feel like some slimy creature you’d find under a rock. And El was as ruthless today as he’d been gentle the night before, demanding everything Moash knew or guessed, pushing when he heard hesitation. He was frighteningly good at noticing when Moash held something back.

Moash sprang into the air, lashing himself straight up, careless of the Everstorm’s drizzle and lightning. Stormspren and windspren danced or fought up here, it was hard to tell which, maybe it was both. His problem was, he didn’t know what he wanted now that Rayse’s death had burdened him with desires. He wanted justice for the Singers and the destruction of the Alethi lighteyes, but that wasn’t the only thing he wanted. He let himself fall. Dredging up all those memories of Bridge Four for El made him ache with loneliness. He’d felt that pain subside last night, but it was fiercer than ever today. Was it even possible to be friends, (or whatever) with someone like El, whose compassion was so controlled he could switch it on or off like a spanreed ruby?

He lashed himself up again when he was as close as he dared to hitting the ground. He was getting miserably cold and wet without the cloak, but he finally had space to think, alone in the sky. This morning, he’d felt eager to spend another evening with El, sharing stories. Now . . . he didn’t know.

He flew until he was well and truly soaked, then swung by the Skybreaker barracks to pick up his pack before heading to the bathhouse. The Fused were like lighteyes in that they would insist on ridiculous luxuries like hot water in the middle of a rushed military campaign. And they were unlike the lighteyes, in that they’d share the facilities with the whole army.

“Idiot,” someone said from behind him as he stood in line.

His face broke into a grin before his mind understood, he spun around to find Khen smirking down at him, statuesque in warform, “You’re here!”

“I’ve been looking for you!” she said, to the rhythm of reprimand, “But apparently you’ve been seeing how much Everstorm you could absorb with your uniform. You look absurd.”

“I feel absurd, but I needed to think and the camp’s full of people.”

“You never used to mind,” she said to the rhythm of curiosity.

“No one talked to me while Rayse had me. Well . . . almost no one,” he added, nodding. “Why are you here? It’s so good to see you!” He almost moved to embrace her but realized it would be an uncomfortably wet hug.

“Get cleaned up, idiot, we can talk when you’re dry,” she said to the rhythm of amusement, taking half a step back.

When he was done he found her in the mess hall, where Ketis was serving an ‘Alethi Style’ curry in addition to the bland version.

“I didn’t know what happened to you!” he said, then continued more slowly: “I’m sorry, the last time I saw you . . .”

“You were out of your mind. You seem better now though,” she said to the rhythm of hope, touching his cheek, “even if you look like a freak,” she added, changing to the rhythm of amusement.

“Are they that bad?” he asked, blushing as he gestured at his eyes.

“Worse. But at least you’re back there behind them now,” she said to the rhythm of reconciliation. Her rhythms had gotten more complex. But the way she used them was unlike the Fused. He’d once seen an Azish woman play an Alethi flute, drawing completely foreign sounds from the familiar instrument so that he almost thought the tool had changed when it was only the mind behind it that was different.

“I mean it Khen. I was so focused on losing my old friends I didn’t appreciate that I was beginning to make new ones.”

“Beginning to?” she said to the rhythm of reprimand. “You saved our lives with your training, I might have stayed with you. If you had cared.”

He paused for a while, savoring the curry which was possibly better than Rock could have managed. It felt good to have her here. Better than he would have guessed. A connection to his old life that wasn’t tainted by the war. How had he not cared about losing her when Rayse protected him? It seemed incomprehensible now. “How did you resist him?” He asked eventually, “I know you had pain too . . . anger, grief . . .”

“Are you really asking me how I resisted the ‘gift’ of numbness, after a lifetime in slaveform?” she said, exaggerating the rhythm of reprimand a little this time, in case he hadn’t caught it.

Moash put his head in his hands. “Why am I so bad at this?” he asked, gesturing around helplessly, shamespren beginning to fall.

“You’re an idiot,” she said to the rhythm of reconciliation.

“Right. Right. Exactly,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “So what happened, where did you go? Why are you here now?”

“I went to find Sah’s daughter: Vai. You wouldn’t have met her; they took her before you joined us. But after Sah died and you were . . . ‘Unchained’. I needed to understand . . . something. Anything. Vai was a place to start.”

“Did you find her?” he asked, attracting more shamespren. Of course, Khen had been doing something useful. Ensuring the safety of a child. Unlike Moash.

“I did, I even got myself a job in the school for a while. It was . . . they aren’t cruel to the children. They’re as kind as any parent, kinder than most. But the story they are telling about our history . . . it isn’t true,” she said to the rhythm of the lost.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“They can’t completely erase our enslavement so soon, when we all just lived it. But already they are trying to make it seem shorter than it was. They focus on the glorious past that they remember, and our bright future as they imagine it, like our years in slave form were just a brief mistake,” she said to the rhythm of the lost.

Moash nodded, familiar with the way lighteyes had warped history to serve their own ends. It was all too likely the Fused would be doing the same.

“I tried to teach the children more. My memories of that time, what we put together with the others. The children were interested,” Khen continued, to the rhythm of hope. “They could remember too, but it’s different for them. A Singer child doesn’t need forms to be fully aware. So they remember their parents being blank and distant, and then suddenly waking up. One day we went around the circle, each child sharing a story of the first time their parent could really play with them, of seeing light come into their eyes. How right it felt. It was beautiful and sad, because of course if they were at the school, their parents were somewhere else, dead or fighting. I tried to help them make sense of what had happened. As if it’s possible to make sense of something like that. But it helps to talk about it with someone. We started to write down a story, together.”

“About your time in slaveform?”

“Yes, and what we knew about how long it lasted, how many generations were lost. But then the Fused who was in charge of the school -- Ryttel -- visited the class to see what we were doing. At first I thought she was impressed. The Fused always complain that us former slaves lack passion. I thought she might be pleased with our initiative. But she pulled me aside and told me I was confusing the children,” she said, changing to the rhythm of betrayal. “She said they would be better off forgetting about that unfortunate time and learning ancient customs instead. I argued with her and she told me if I wanted to change the world I should go back to the army rather than making trouble for the school. I knew she was wrong but arguing with the Fused is as useless as arguing with humans,” she said, giving Moash the little ‘not you’ nod that she’d used when they were battle comrades.

“Ryttel said the commander here, El, would be interested in my ideas,” she said, switching back to the rhythm of hope, but faintly, almost speaking to no rhythm as she had when he first knew her. Fused never did that, but the Awakened Singers had a way of deemphasizing their rhythms to show uncertainty.

Moash both grimaced and blushed, the mention of El’s name bringing the conflicted emotions his flight and Khen’s story had managed to bury roiling back to the surface.

“What?” Khen asked to the rhythm of curiosity.

“Nothing!” Mosash said, confusionspren joining the shamespren.

“Do you know El? Would he talk to me?” she asked, changing to the rhythm of excitement.

“Maybe, I’m not sure. We haven’t talked about the Awakened Singers,” he said, wondering now if they should have.

“But you’ve been talking to him about other things,” she said to the rhythm of confidence.

“Yes,” Moash said unhappily. “It was his interrogation that had me flying in the rain.”

“Hmmm,” she said to the rhythm of consideration, tilting her head to study his face. “What have you been up to, Vyre?”

“It’s Moash again. And I, uh, spent the night with El last night, but not like that,” he added quickly, in response to Khen’s rhythm of surprise. “We just talked and slept. Though I think if I wanted . . .”

“So you’ve gone straight from being Rayse’s favorite to sharing a bed with one of the most powerful Fused?” she said to the rhythm of tension. “For someone who says he cares for the common people, you have a way of finding yourself close to power.”

“We didn’t actually share a bed,” Moash muttered, “just a room.”

“Mmmmhmmm,” Khen hummed to the rhythm of skepticism.

“I didn’t even think of him being in charge. He was just, nice to me . . .” Moash said, reluctant to discover even more potential points of conflict with El.

“You thought Rayse was being nice to you.”

“It’s not like that,” Moash said, relieved to find himself certain of at least one thing. What El wanted from him was very different from what Rayse had wanted. That didn’t mean it was good, of course, but if it turned out badly, it would be bad in a new way.

“Then what’s it like?” Khen asked, letting the rhythm of curiosity replace the rhythm of skepticism.

“I don’t even know! We talked. He said things that helped me make sense of what happened with Rayse. He made me feel like I might be someone worth knowing. But then today he demanded I tell him everything about my old Bridge Four friends and it felt awful.”

“Moash . . . do you even . . . you’re fighting a war. Of course he wants to use your knowledge of the enemy. Rayse used you the same way. That is not the part you should be questioning.”

“When Rayse did it, I couldn’t question. Now . . . I don’t know. I like him. Or, I like him when he’s not using me as a strategic asset,” he said, feeling the heat rise to his face again.

“One day, I’ll take mate form, and maybe then I’ll be able to understand how your mind works. There must be a hundred people in this camp who would be more appropriate targets for your urges,” she said to the rhythm of amusement. While Venli had always insisted that Listeners only pursued relationships in mateform, there seemed to be a lot more variability among the Awakened Singers and the Fused. Khen was among the majority who were uninterested in sex, but a sizable minority felt very differently. Leshwi had laughed when he asked about it, saying one didn’t need to be starving to enjoy a well-cooked meal.

“I’m not the one doing the aiming. He sought me out. I just . . . followed his lead,” Moash muttered.

“Just like you did with Rayse. Look: where are you sleeping tonight?”

“I hadn’t really thought. I had a cot in the skybreaker barracks but I couldn’t sleep there. That’s how El found me in the first place. I was sitting by a chasm and he just showed up with a bottle of violet.” Moash smiled slightly at the memory. If he could just have that El and not the battle commander. Maybe when this was over. Agash had certainly made it sound like El’s interest wouldn’t be fleeting. If he was even still interested after Moash had stormed out of their meeting, what could that be like . . .

“You have less sense than a lurg!” Khen said, rapping his knuckles to regain his attention. “Look, come sleep in my barrack tonight, it isn’t full. You can at least think it over and you can get your revenge by giving me some intelligence about how to convince El to treat the Awakened Singers as more than just fodder.”

“I don’t think he’ll change things much before the deadline,” Moash said, guiltily.

“I know. But those who survive deserve something to look forward to besides Fused leadership continuing as it has,” she said to the rhythm of determination.

Moash thought for a while. He badly wanted to know what would happen if he returned to El’s little room. It was a warm round corner in his mind, a bubble of safety and connection. But he didn’t know how to explain why El’s questions had hurt him so much. And he didn’t want to not explain how he’d felt. What he wanted most from El was understanding, but just now he didn’t feel like he could make himself understood. If he went back there he’d need to make choices. Khen’s friendship was so much less fraught. Plus he owed her, after abandoning her to become Unchained. If he could help her in her project now, maybe it would be the start of an apology.

“Ok, yeah,” he said. “If you’re sure there’s room in your barracks.”

“Of course there is,” she said to the rhythm of confidence, “it can be like old times, working together to figure out the mysterious ways of the Fused.”

“Why are you so . . . good?” he asked.

“I spent the last year figuring myself out, instead of hauling rocks and getting mindfucked by our god, you should try it,” she said, to the rhythm of conceit. “It’s good to have you back though, Moash. I’ve missed you,” she added to the rhythm of praise.

“I’ve missed you too,” he said, getting up to follow her, with only a slight pang of regret as they turned down the path leading away from El’s cave.

[art by basket-of-radiants]

[ID: Moash stands in the rain, brown uniform soaked, hands in his pockets, crystal eyes dismayed, surrounded by rainspren (blue candles at his feet). Khen in red warform faces him, her hand raised.]