Chapter Text
Terra incognita noun
: unknown territory : an unexplored country or field of knowledge
_____
Adolin
He's experimented with his surges before, obviously. Practiced flying—though techincally he's falling, just in different directions—and sticking rocks and wood splinters and even cremlings to the chasm walls. Even floated his fellow bridgemen around. He's recently begun to feel more in control when he's the one in the air, but he still hasn't completely mastered anything.
Diving headfirst into a chasm with jagged rock walls when the person he's trying to save from becoming a puddle of gore on the hard ground already has a head start on him is way beyond what he feels comfortable doing, but he's already committed himself to the act so he'll be damned if he lets this storming prince literally hit rock bottom.
Time stretches, seconds pulling long and thin as he plummets into the shadows. His eyes never leave his quarry, glued to the man in full Shardplate except for his storming helmet, which was already off when Sadeas front-kicked the man straight to his doom, so he gets to witness the terrifying sight of the prince's unprotected skull making contact with one of the sharp rock outcroppings on the chasm wall.
The prince immediately goes lax, blue Shardplate-covered limbs limp and flopping as his body hits another large rock, tumbling through the air and bouncing off the wall like a stone stuck in a washing wheel. The Shardplate lets off bright bursts of Light with each impact, some pieces visibly cracking from the force.
Adolin lashes himself down on a diagonal to intercept the now unconscious prince, reaches him moments before they hit the ground, wraps his arms around the battered man's torso and attempts to reverse his lashings—
_____
He doesn't know where he is when he comes to.
It's dark and damp, smells of mold and metal and dust. There's no sound except for the soft susurrations Adolin associates with frillblooms and other half-sentient plants that sway in the breeze peacefully and then hide when predators near; leaves brushing together, vines rubbing against rock. It's soothing, reminds him of home.
It's also cold. He shivers, which alerts him to the aches and pains radiating throughout his body. It feels like he went a round with a whitespine and lost.
Groaning, he rolls onto his side, hissing as it puts pressure on a bruised hip. Pushing himself up to sitting, he starts cataloging his injuries. His eyes still haven't adjusted completely to the dim light so he runs his hands over his limbs, torso, what he can reach of his back, his head.
He counts several bruises, maybe a cracked rib or two. Quite a few abrasions and lacerations. But all in all he's in fairly good shape after…
After…
He looks around finally, squinting as he tries to make out where exactly he is. He stays quiet—is he still a slave? Did he run away from his masters again?
That doesn't feel right, feels like he's missing something, but until he knows for sure…
Slowly his eyes adjust and he begins to comprehend his surroundings. The ground around him is stone, marked with numerous small puddles of water. A little farther away is an uneven vertical wall with what looks like lichen and other plant life growing on it.
There are large lumps on the ground, many of them. One is within touching distance. He leans closer, sees a small, pale shape next to it…
A hand.
It's a body.
He scrambles back, ignorning the twinge of pain in his torso as his heart rate skyrockets.
The lumps are all bodies, strewn about the chasm floor.
The chasm floor.
He fell into a chasm… No, he jumped into a chasm. To try to save—
The prince.
Adolin pushes himself to his feet, has to pause part way up as his head spins, taking slow breaths until he regains his balance. Then he straightens fully and peers around into the darkness, searching frantically for any sign of the Kholin prince.
There's a lump larger than the rest shoved up against the opposite wall of the chasm, and Adolin immediately rushes toward it. As he gets closer he can make out the scratched and dented surface of the prince's Shardplate, his head of dark hair resting on one armored bicep as if the man is simply napping.
He kneels, eyes scanning the prone figure in the low light. The Plate looks even worse up close, blue paint chipped and scraped off completely in some places, several large cracks running through the breastplate. The gemstones that typically light up the armor are completely dun. He's never seen Shardplate in such a state.
That battered Plate is undoubtedly the only reason the prince is still alive.
If he's still alive.
Adolin places a hand beneath the prince's nose to check if he's breathing. There's a soft puff of air against his skin—he's alive. For now at least.
"Adolin, you're awake!"
Adolin jumps, twisting to see Syl flying speedily up to him. His ribs protest the movement and he hisses quietly.
"Syl," he says, keeping his voice low just in case the prince is conscious and listening.
"I was so worried! You wouldn't wake up— I was looking for help, to see if anyone else down here is still alive—"
"Syl, I'm okay," Adolin reassures her quietly.
He instinctively tries to pull in Stormlight but there's none to be had. After a quick check he confirms that all of the spheres in his pouch are dun, and of course the prince's Shardplate has nothing to offer in the way of Light. Adolin suspects he accidentally took in whatever was left in the armor either right before they crashed or after, to heal the worst of his wounds while he was still unconscious. He has no doubt at all that he should be more injured than he is.
"I'm fine," he says. "Just a couple of bumps and bruises, but I'll live."
Syl's bright form visibly sags with relief in the air in front of him. "Oh, good. I couldn't tell, I don't know much about what a human body can withstand. I just saw you bleeding and you wouldn't wake up and I panicked."
"I'm fine, Syl, really," he says again, and she floats over to land on his shoulder, scooting in close to press up against his neck. He can't feel her but it's nice to know he's not alone down here regardless.
"…What about him?" She asks, and Adolin turns again to look down at the man in front of him.
Unfortunately, even with Shardplate to protect the prince, he does not have the ability to heal himself with Stormlight, so whatever injuries he's suffering inside that armor Adolin's going to have to tend to as best he can.
He checks the head wound first, grasping the prince's bloody face carefully in both hands, tilting it gently to each side to locate the source of the bleeding. He finds it quickly, a large lump on the right side of his skull with a gash running through the middle. Adolin presses lightly around the wound, half-expecting some kind of pained reaction from the injured man, but he stays deathly still, and Adolin's anxiety spikes.
He really should have paid better attention when he was helping out at the surgery in Hearthstone, it would have been extremely helpful to know what to do in a situation like this. He vaguely remembers the surgeon talking about a patient that was brought to him after he fell off a roof scraping crem. The surgeon said that he could tell the man was going to die when he noticed clear fluid draining from the man's ear canals.
Adolin brushes the prince's damp hair away from his ears and leans in, searching for any signs of fluid.
"What are you looking for?" Syl asks, lifting from his shoulder and floating closer to the prince to watch what Adolin's doing more closely.
"Looking for fluid in his ears. It could mean a brain injury. I think," he says, scowling at his own lack of knowledge.
He searches thoroughly but thankfully finds none, just tacky blood trailing down from the man's hairline.
He divests himself of his bridgeman's vest and balls it up, wedging it between the man's head and a large rock to keep pressure on the wound while he moves on with his amateur examination.
Adolin's never touched Shardplate before. The closest he's gotten was back when he defeated the Shardbearer in Amaram's army and those few times Sadeas marched across his bridge on plateau runs. And as a darkeyed spearman he was never given regular armor to wear when he fought, just some reinforced leather to use as meager protection.
But his father did have some pieces of standard metal armor from his days in the military packed away in the shed. Not a full set—it was missing the helmet, a couple pieces on the left leg, and an entire arm. But it was enough that Adolin isn't completely clueless on where he can look for the release catches on the Shardplate in front of him now.
He finds them mostly where he expects them to be with the help of Syl's soft glow and unlatches them quickly, removing the broken armor one piece at a time, careful not to jostle the prince more than he has to. The Plate is heavier than he expected, and he guesses that with the gemstones dun the prince would probably not have been able to move in it even if he was conscious. He tosses all of the pieces into a pile a few feet away.
He carefully unbuttons the padded vest, pushing it off the man's shoulders and down one arm, then the other. Blood from his head wound has soaked into the neck of his off-white undershirt, and there's another patch of red on the left side of his abdomen. Adolin lifts the shirt and finds a long gash there, not too deep but definitely in need of bandaging.
Syl gasps. "Adolin, is he going to die?"
"I don't— think so? I think it's not too bad. I need to see if that's the worst one. Worst first, my mother always said."
He takes a steadying breath and unbuckles the man's belt, then unties the laces on his pants, carefully pulling them down to expose long, lean legs dusted with dark hair. There are several new contusions, a blushing red that Adolin knows will darken soon to blues and purples, but nothing actively bleeding that he can see. He pulls the pants back up and refastens them, then takes off one shoe at a time, finding the man's left ankle swollen to almost twice its normal size.
Leaving that for now he moves back up the man's body and uses the small dagger he found strapped to the inside of one of the man's boots to slice apart the padded vest he took off the prince earlier. He cuts a strip long enough to wrap around the man's waist and presses a square of one of the padded parts to the wound on his stomach, then tightly ties the strip to hold it in place.
With the remaining fabric he wraps the ankle as snug as he can to immobilize it. Broken or sprained he can't tell, but regardless of diagnosis it's going to hurt like Damnation itself when the man wakes up—Adolin can tell that from the rapid swelling—so the best he can do is try to reinforce it, because they're going to have to walk on it if they expect to get out of here alive.
That's the conclusion he's come to in the few minutes he's been awake: they're going to have to find their own way out. The chasms are deep and unexplored here. There are no ladders. And if his memory serves him right there's a highstorm predicted in two days' time. If they're caught down here during that, well…
Adolin sits back on his heels, looking up, and up, and up. He can't see anything, can't even hear anything. No one shouting his name or the prince's, calling down to see if they survived the fall. They have no reason to believe they could have—Shardplate or not, Prince Kaladin would have died from his injuries stuck down here. He still might. And Adolin is just a bridgeman, unarmored and unprotected, a dead man to everyone except maybe Bridge Four. There's a distinct possibility they'll suspect he survived, knowing what he can do with Stormlight, but they will also be aware that his access to Light is limited. And if he and the prince can't get out of here before the highstorm…
"Syl, are any of the men still up there?" He asks as the spren hovers curiously over the prince's face. She flies over to Adolin, shaking her head.
"No. I stayed with you for a while because I was scared to leave, and by the time I went looking for help the armies were already gone," she says miserably. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, no, that's okay. Don't worry, Syl, it's not your fault."
"But how will you get out of here now?" She asks, distraught. "Nobody will even know you're still alive!"
Adolin looks around in the darkness. She's right—they probably all think he's dead. It's been several days since the last highstorm, and they've been practicing a lot with his powers lately. They were running low even before today's bridge run. Plus, if he hasn't already returned to them…
No, he's going to have to find his own way out.
Adolin leans forward and gently shakes the prince's shoulder. The dark-haired head lolls to the side sickeningly, dislodging the cloth pressed against his skull. Adolin picks it up, wincing at the large spot of blood now soaked into it, and presses it back against the wound, holding it in place as his mind races.
What is he going to do? They need to start moving in the direction of the warcamps, where Adolin knows there are permanent ladders placed for retrieval and salvage operations. He needs the prince to wake up. He can't carry him the whole way. But he can't just leave him, either.
…Can he?
He stares at the man, imagines standing up right now and walking away from him as he lies here, bleeding.
No. Lighteyes or not, Kholin or not, Adolin's conscience would not allow him to just leave an injured, vulnerable man to his fate in a place like this. Besides, aren't the Kholins supposed to be the 'good ones'? Adolin doesn't usually believe gossip but this time some of it came straight from the mouths of his own men. It's possible there might be some truth to it…
He shakes his head, cursing. He'll do his best to save the prince but believing he's good is going too far. He can't allow himself to put any kind of trust in a lighteyes, no matter how small. That's how he ended up here, as a bridgeman, and before this as a slave. Always giving the lighteyes the benefit of the doubt. He'll save this man because it's the right thing to do and because he's apparently been decent enough to earn the respect of some of the members of Bridge Four, but that doesn't mean he's going to storming like doing it.
He's just made up his mind to carry the other man as far as he can when the prince lets out a small moan.
Adolin's gaze snaps back to the man's face, thinking he imagined the sound, but he watches as the prince's fingers twitch and then his arm slowly lifts, reaching up to his head, feeling for the wound there. His fingers bump against Adolin's, which are still holding the bridgeman vest against the injury, and he grasps onto Adolin's wrist with weak fingers, turning his head to try to make sense of what's happening even with his eyes still shut tight.
"He's waking up!" Syl whispers excitedly.
"M' head… Where…?" The prince mumbles.
"You hit your head," Adolin says quietly, heart pounding in his chest. "We're in the chasms. We fell, and you were injured."
"Fell…"
The man's eyelids flutter; he's attempting to open them but can't. The pain in his head must be terrible.
"Who…?"
"My name is Adolin," Adolin says, keeping his voice low.
"Ado… lin? I don't…"
"No," Adolin interrupts gently. "We've never met."
Why is he being so soft? So careful? So kind to this lighteyed lordling he's never met before, who has the power to ruin Adolin's life with a snap of his fingers? He wants to shake himself but he can't help the surge of pity he feels at seeing the other man's helplessness.
The prince's brow scrunches in confusion as he tries to piece together the events that led to him being injured with a complete stranger hovering over him in a chasm.
"We need to start moving if we can. Can you open your eyes?" Adolin asks.
He barely open them, just the smallest slit, before he immediately groans in pain and closes them again.
"Hurts," he slurs.
"I know," Adolin says, biting his lip. "Alright, listen. I'm going to carry you. It's probably not going to feel great, so I'm sorry in advance, but we really need to get going. There's a highstorm in two days and it's a long walk back to the warcamps."
"What…" The prince starts, but Adolin is already standing, then squatting down to loop his arms beneath the injured man's body. "Wait, no…" The prince protests, and Adolin freezes, one arm wedged beneath the man's upper back and the other under his knees.
"We really need to go, Your Highness," Adolin says, tensing. Syl swirls around him excitedly, casting flickering shadows on the chasm walls that only he can see. He doesn't want to argue with a lighteyed prince if he doesn't have to, but if the man is going listen to sense…
"Wait, I can…"
The Prince shifts, and Adolin slips his arms out from under him and stands back. The dark-haired man takes a shuddering breath, then pushes himself up with shaking arms into a sitting position, groaning quietly, eyes still closed. Adolin kneels and places a supportive hand in the middle of his back between his shoulder blades, feels the shirt there damp with chilled sweat. The ribcage under his palm expands and contracts with heavy breaths as the prince struggles to stay upright.
"…Your Highness?" Adolin asks quietly when the silence drags on.
"I'm okay," the prince mumbles. Then, a second later, "Help me stand, Adolin."
He's startled the man remembers his name but does as he's told, grabbing the prince's left hand in his while wrapping an arm around his back and easing him up slowly.
The prince bites off another pained groan as his weight settles onto his swollen ankle, jaw going tight, but he manages to keep his feet admirably. He still hasn't opened his eyes.
"Are you alright?" Adolin asks, reluctantly impressed.
"Yes, just give me a minute, please," the other man murmurs, still holding tightly to Adolin's hand.
He opens his eyes much more slowly this time. It's obvious that even the dim light is painful as they fill with moisture and his brow furrows mightily, but he refuses to let them close despite the discomfort.
He blinks several times before focusing on Adolin, then seems to register his dark eyes and shabby clothes.
"You're a bridgeman," he mumbles in a tone of mild surprise.
Adolin nods. "I am." He waits for the disgust, the anger, the dismissal, but it doesn't come.
Instead, the young prince inclines his head slightly and says quietly, "Thank you for helping me."
Adolin is stunned.
"Oh," Syl breathes.
The Kholin prince slowly releases his grip on Adolin's hand and looks around them, gaze falling on his disassembled, ruined armor. He grimaces.
"Guess that's out of commission now," he comments with a surprising dark humor, before his eyebrows pinch together again, in confusion this time. Moving carefully, he turns back to Adolin.
"How did you survive?" He asks slowly, taking in Adolin's relatively unhurt state. "How are you not more injured? Areyou injured?"
Adolin thinks fast. "I fell a little further away, where my bridge was set up. I was caught up in a skirmish and a whole group of us were pushed off the edge together. I guess I landed on top of some of them and they cushioned my fall."
"That is a terrible lie," Syl chirps, translucent eyebrows raised with hands on her hips.
You come up with something better, he mentally shoots back, wondering if Syl can hear him. She sticks out her tongue at him so he guesses she can at the very least feel the sentiment.
The prince is watching him closely, his eyes becoming sharper and more cognizant with every second that passes, and he looks like he believes absolutely no part of Adolin's story. Well, that's too bad, because it's the one he's getting.
"And… you're the only one that survived?"
"Yeah," Adolin says. "I checked. There were one or two soldiers that survived the fall but died shortly after. I couldn't save them." He tries very hard to sound convincing but isn't sure he quite hits the mark.
The prince is quiet, staring at him.
"I think you're lying," he says softly.
"Uh oh," Syl says, flying a loose circle around them both.
"Think what you want," Adolin replies, fighting to keep his tone from veering into aggressively defensive territory because of course a lighteyes would think he's a liar, "but we need to move. Can you walk?"
The prince gives him a searching look but doesn't press further. After a second he nods once in response to Adolin's question.
"I'll manage." But instead of going either left or right to follow the path of the chasm he slowly turns around and limps stiffly toward the pile of broken Shardplate by the chasm wall.
"What–"
"I need to bring a piece back to have it regrown," the prince says. He places a steadying hand against the moss-covered stone wall and, moving like a man born sometime before the Last Desolation, bends to reach for his armor.
"Storms, stop, it hurts me just to watch you," Adolin says, striding over as the prince straightens carefully, still holding onto the wall for balance. "Which piece do you want?"
"Doesn't matter. The one that will be easiest to carry." He sounds winded and when Adolin looks up his face is pale and strained.
"Are you–"
"I'm fine," the prince bites out, wincing. He closes his eyes and takes a slow breath, then looks back at Adolin. "I apologize. I'm not at my best at the moment."
Adolin is torn between holding onto his righteous anger and shock at the fact that he's received both a thank you and an apology from not just a lighteyes but Alethi royalty in the last five minutes, so he settles for something else entirely and snorts.
"You can say that again," he remarks.
To his surprise the other man's lips tilt up at the corners in a wry smile. It's exhausted, and his face is still covered in blood and crem and days-old stormwater, but it's surprising enough that Adolin smiles back before he catches himself and shoves it down.
He grabs the smallest piece of armor he can find—looks like a vambrace—then steps up next to the Kholin prince, holding out an arm.
"Come on, Your Highness. Let's get moving."
The injured man looks down at his arm and must realize he doesn't actually have a choice if they expect to get far, so he sighs, letting go of the wall and gripping Adolin's forearm for support. Slowly, they begin to hobble their way westward, Syl's light illuminating the path.
_____
They make it barely ten minutes before they have to stop because Adolin's afraid the prince is going to pass out. His skin has gone faintly green, bloodless lips pressed tightly together, and the moment they stop moving he leans his back against the chasm wall and slides down it, knees raised, to rest his head in his hands.
Adolin doesn't bother asking if he's okay. The man is clearly suffering from a concussion—light and sound sensitivity, nausea, slowed speech. That plus the pain from his ankle, head, and stomach wounds, and Adolin's honestly impressed he's still standing. Well, figuratively.
He watches the prince breathe, slow and deep, and wonders, not for the first time, how they're going to make it back to the warcamps in time.
"He doesn't look so good," Syl says quietly, floating stationary next to Adolin. Adolin shakes his head minutely in agreement.
"I'm going to take a look around," Adolin says aloud. The prince doesn't look up but one of his hands lifts from where it's tangled in his dark locks and Adolin takes it as acknowledgment.
He wanders farther down the chasm, out of earshot of the prince, Syl leading the way.
Eventually they come across another pile of fresh corpses, mostly soldiers from Sadeas's army with a few Kholin uniforms and Parshendi mixed in. He crouches down and searches the bodies for supplies, kicking himself for not thinking of doing so earlier before they left their original landing spot, and finds a mini first aid kit, several ration bars, three mostly full canteens of water, and a small cloth satchel to store it all in. He grabs a spear from one of the dead soldiers and then, after a slight hesitation, grabs a side sword from one of the fallen lighteyed officers as well.
"Ooh, are you going to fight with the sword? I bet Prince Kaladin will be very impressed, you're so good with it," Syl coos happily.
"No," Adolin mutters, rolling his eyes. "I'm darkeyed—I'll use the spear. The sword is for him." He pauses for a moment, then adds: "If he can even lift it."
"Why wouldn't he be able to— oh, because he's injured," Syl says in understanding. Adolin nods.
"Yeah," he says, grim. "Let's just hope we don't come across any chasmfiends while we're down here."
He knows the prince has a Shardblade that he can summon at any time but figures a backup weapon is always appreciated. At least that's what he tells himself, even as he eyes the sharp metal blade with longing.
He makes his way back and finds the prince right where he left him, a dark blob against the looming chasm wall.
"We're going to rest here for the night," Adolin says as he approaches. At least he thinks it's night. They fell some time in the late afternoon, and though he has no idea how long they were unconscious the already dim light in the chasms seems to have faded even more so in the short time they've been awake. He can barely see ten feet in front of himself now without Syl's light.
"Don't we need to keep moving?" The prince asks, though he doesn't sound particularly disappointed by the idea of staying put. Actually, he sounds as if he'd rather be eaten by the chasmfiend Adolin fears meeting than start walking again.
"Yeah," Adolin says, propping the two weapons on the wall next to the man, "but you're in no shape for it and I could use a meal and a couple hours' sleep myself."
"…A meal?"
Adolin pulls two ration bars out of the satchel and squats in front of the lighteyes, holding one out. "Only the best for a Prince of Alethkar, Your Highness," he says with a smirk.
It's hard to tell in the darkness but he thinks the prince might go even paler at the sight of the bar.
"No, thank you," he says.
Adolin shrugs. "Suit yourself."
He sits and takes a large bite of the bar, chewing vigorously. It's not the best thing he's ever eaten but it's certainly not the worst, either. It tastes vaguely of sawdust and dried fruit, overly sweet like women's food tends to be and yet somehow still extremely bland, and it tries to lodge in his throat as he swallows. He digs into the satchel for one of the water canteens, unscrews the metal top, and takes a large sip, forcing the bite down.
He offers the canteen to his companion but the other man doesn't notice, head back in his hands again. Adolin nudges him on the shoulder with it and the prince looks up, notices the canteen and hesitates.
"You should drink something," Adolin tells him.
"I feel like I might just throw it back up," the prince admits. "And I really don't want to do that right now."
Adolin grimaces in sympathy. "Small sips?"
The other man hesitates, then takes the canteen and puts it to his lips, taking a careful sip before lowering it. A few seconds pass and he takes another. After a third he hands the canteen back with a murmured, "Thanks".
"He seems so nice," Syl says thoughtfully, floating in front of the prince's face, starting intently at his eyes and the crease between his brows. "Not at all like you said most lighteyes are."
They all seem nice at first.
"I know I said we should rest but I don't actually know if you should sleep," Adolin admits to the other man, thinking about how the town surgeon treated the few head injuries Adolin remembers coming through the Hearthstone clinic, and the prince sighs.
"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing," he says tiredly. "But I also don't know if I'll be able to stay awake if we're just going to sit here." He raises his head and Adolin can barely make out the apologetic look on his face in the shadows. "I'm sorry. I'm going to be a crem watch partner."
He's right, Adolin's going to have to hope nothing comes along with a mind to eat them while he gets some much needed rest, but for some reason the anger he expects to feel at the prince's admittance doesn't manifest. Luckily, he has Syl, and as far as he's aware she doesn't need sleep.
"It's alright. I doubt there's much that could hurt us down here anyway besides chasmfiends, and I'm pretty sure we'll be able to hear one of those coming," Adolin says. He hesitates, then empties the satchel, placing the contents in a small pile on the ground next to the weapons, then folds up the fabric and hands it to the prince. At the man's confused look Adolin shrugs. "Not exactly palace-quality bedding, but it'll make a better pillow than a rock, I assure you."
The prince looks down at the small bundle in his hand, then back up at Adolin. "I—"
Adolin pretends not to hear him, stretching his body out flat against the rock floor, doing his best to avoid any puddles that might soak his clothes. The air is already cool and quickly getting colder—he doesn't want to add hypothermia to the list of their current problems. The ground is hard but not much worse than the Bridge Four barracks, so he manages to find a moderately comfortable position and closes his eyes, cutting off all further attempts at conversation.
It's several long moments before he hears the prince settle down next to him, and when he opens his eyes a few minutes later the prince's eyes are closed and his breathing has gone slow and deep.
Syl disappears down the chasm, maybe off to look for help again, and the chasm grows fully dark, lit only by the faint, faraway light of the moon slipping through the crack high above.
Adolin stares at the shadowed features of the other man's face. The strong nose he first noticed when the lighteyed prince crossed his bridge above. The eyebrows, dark and low over lids lined with thick black lashes. He wonders what the prince is dreaming about—his luxurious bed in the Kholin palace? His many admirers back in the warcamps? Prince Tien, hopefully still alive after returning to discover his older brother has fallen into the chasms?
The last thought stops Adolin short; he knows that pain, or something like it. And if the rumors are to be believed, Tien Kholin has a kind soul, and his love for his brother runs deep. The pain he must be feeling right now would be immense, world-altering.
Adolin struggles to find sleep for close to an hour, then sits up and gently shakes the other man's shoulder.
"Hey," he murmurs. "Hey, wake up."
The prince makes a soft sound, too vulnerable to be a groan of pain, more like a breathy whimper that, despite Adolin's attempts to harden his heart against the man and others like him, batters at him with sympathy and compassion. Adolin clears his throat then shakes a little more vigorously.
"I need you to open your eyes for just a second," Adolin explains quietly. "Can you do that? Open your eyes?"
The prince's eyelids flutter, then crack open just enough for his gaze to lock hazily onto Adolin, attempting to focus.
"Wha–" he croaks.
"Hey," Adolin says, a wave of relief washing over him at the sight of the unfocused blue irises. "What's your name?" He asks, feeling ridiculous. Is this what he's supposed to do for a head injury? He can't remember—which is a tad ironic.
Those heavy, dark eyebrows pinch together as the prince answers. "Kaladin," he says, voice hoarse.
"Great," Adolin says, gently patting his shoulder. "Good. You can go back to sleep now."
The prince doesn't respond, just closes his eyes again and immediately nods off.
Adolin resumes his position on the ground facing the other man, deciding he should stay up to do another check in an hour or two.
He blinks slowly, exhausted, staring at the face mere feet away from his own, thoughts muddy and nebulous. Blinks again, but his eyes stay closed longer this time, just for a few seconds to relieve the burning. Opens them again but they won't stay open this time, his lids far too heavy, and, mind and body having finally reached their limits, is finally pulled down into slumber.
_____
"Could you slow down a bit?"
Adolin slows, gritting his teeth in frustration.
"There's no use getting upset," Syl says, flitting around the wide bottom of the chasm in her miniature person form. "I think he really is trying."
"Trying is going to end up with both of us dead," Adolin says, sour.
Syl is quiet for a moment, thinking. "He seems like he's in a lot of pain." She perks up suddenly. "Maybe you could carry him, like you were going to last night?"
"No, Syl, I can't—" Adolin shakes his head, giving a frustrated sigh. "No. I won't be able to carry him very far; he's not exactly small. I'd only be able to do it for an hour or two, tops, and then I wouldn't be able to walk, either."
Syl chews her see-through lip worriedly. Adolin wonders where she picked that habit up.
"What will you do, then?"
Adolin shakes his head again, stopping as he waits for the prince to catch up.
When he does his face is pale and sweaty, jaw clenched. He looks just as frustrated as Adolin feels, obviously not used to being the one slowing people down.
"Do you need another rest?" Adolin asks, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice and obviously failing.
"No," the other man says shortly.
So they continue to walk, the Kholin prince hobbling along at a pace that will surely drive Adolin insane. At one point he stumbles and almost falls face-first into the stone, but Adolin catches him with an arm around the man's chest, wincing as it pulls at his own tender ribs.
"Sorry, are you alright?" The prince asks him, panting.
"…Yes? Yes, I'm fine," Adolin says, surprised the man even noticed Adolin's discomfort with how much of his own pain he must be dealing with right now. When the prince's toe catches on another rock and he almost brings them both down Adolin finally calls for another rest.
They limp to a rock large enough for both of them to sit on and Adolin places the sword and spear, which he strapped to his back earlier, next to them on the ground. Then he opens the satchel and pulls out the water canteens, handing one to the prince, who nods in thanks.
"How're you feeling?" Adolin asks him after a few minutes of sipping water and catching their breath.
The prince gives a half-hearted shrug. "Fine," he says dully.
"I highly doubt that, Your Highness," Adolin returns.
"Kaladin," the Prince says.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Kaladin," he repeats, turning to lock eyes with Adolin. They're so blue, the color of the sky that Adolin knows soars endlessly above these dark chasms. "Please call me Kaladin."
Adolin thinks suddenly of Miriem, and his chest aches.
"I… don't know if I can do that," he replies slowly.
The prince gives a small smirk, there and then gone so quickly Adolin thinks he might have imagined it. "And if I order you to, Adolin?"
Adolin doesn't answer and Kaladin must see something in his face because the prince sighs, turning away again.
"I'm fine. Head hurts, but that's to be expected."
"How's your side?" Adolin asks, grateful for the change of subject. "You know—" he gestures down near his lower abdomen, just above his hipbone, where the gash on the prince's side is.
The prince—Kaladin—lifts his shirt, checking the bandage. It still holds, though there are a few spots of bright red blood, obviously fresh. "It's fine," he says, dropping his shirt back down.
"Wait, hold on," Adolin says sharply, shifting from his spot on the rock to kneel in front of the other man, shoving Kaladin's dirty undershirt back up. The prince holds it as Adolin goes for the edges of the makeshift bandage.
He unwraps it carefully, pulling the bandage all the way off and revealing that part of the wound has split open again, oozing crimson in a small rivulet down the man's tan skin.
Adolin leans to reach into the sack, fishing around until he finds the small first aid kit. He unrolls a fresh bandage, then uses his canteen to slowly drip water along the wound, rinsing it clear of old blood and dirt. There's no antiseptic in the kit so once it's as clean as it's going to get he just wraps the new bandage around the man's abdomen, ties it off, and sits back on his heels as the prince lowers his shirt again.
Suddenly aware he's being observed, Adolin busies himself cleaning up their supplies, reassembling the medical kit and repacking the satchel. He pulls out one of the last two ration bars and opens it, tearing it in half and handing the larger chunk to the prince.
Kaladin takes it, and Adolin moves to sit beside him once again as they both quietly eat their meager, barely-edible lunch.
"Where did you learn to heal?"
Adolin chews, contemplating how best to answer, if he should even answer at all, before swallowing with effort.
"My mother was a surgeon's assistant in my hometown," Adolin says. It's not exactly a font of information, but hopefully it will be enough to sate the prince's curiosity; Adolin doesn't feel like taking a deep dive into the past he actively tries to avoid.
"Oh," Kaladin says. "Well, thank you. I'm glad you're here with me." He scoffs at himself softly. "Not glad you're down here, of course. Or that you're stuck with me, since I'm obviously slowing you down. I just meant—"
Adolin snorts, interrupting him. "I get it, don't hurt yourself even more," he says drily.
Kaladin laughs and Adolin has to duck his head to hide a grin. Storms, he's trying very hard to hate the man but the prince is making it extremely difficult. Adolin thinks of Miriem again, about how she wasn't terrible despite being a lighteyes. Perhaps Kaladin might be like her? Kind, despite the circumstances of his birth?
The smile slips from Adolin's face as he remembers how he's been taken in before by lighteyes who then revealed their true colors. He remembers all of his other owners from his time as a slave, and he suddenly feels less forgiving of the lighteyed royalty sitting before him.
Sure, he's polite. He remembered Adolin's name, and he's been nothing but grateful and good-mannered with Adolin since they ended up down here, even when he suspected Adolin was lying about how he survived. And he doesn't seem like he particularly wants to rub his privilege or entitlement in Adolin's face. He just seems… sad.
That thought stokes his slowly dwindling ire again, because what in Damnation does a lighteyed prince have to be sad about? Not getting his breakfast served to him on a platter this morning, juice freshly squeezed and cooled with ice chips? Meanwhile Adolin and the other bridgemen are sleeping on the ground and worrying about whether they're going to die the following day or not.
He stands, holds his hand out for the prince's water canteen, dropping it into the satchel when Kaladin hands it silently over.
"Ready?" He asks, looking down at the other man.
Kaladin stares at him, clearly trying to understand the sudden change in mood, but then he just nods, pushing himself up to standing carefully, wobbling a little on his bad ankle before he finds his balance again.
"Ready," he says quietly.
Adolin turns and marches in the direction he thinks is west, toward the warcamps. The Kholin prince follows.
_____
Kaladin
Kaladin trails the bridgeman silently for the next several hours, doing his best to keep up. He can tell the man is intentionally walking slower than he normally would and it chafes terribly to be coddled like this, but there's nothing he can do about it because he truly can't go any faster.
His head aches and he feels nauseated constantly. He's hungry and thirsty but they're low on supplies and he doesn't think he could keep down much more than what he ate earlier anyway. His side stings, though that hurt is mild compared to the pain in his ankle. It throbs relentlessly, the pain deep and jarring with every step he takes on it. It's clearly sprained, if not broken, and typically an injury such as this would require weeks to heal where he would keep his weight off of it as much as possible.
Unfortunately he doesn't have that option here. They need to walk, and walk fast, if what the bridgeman says is right about the highstorm. Kaladin doesn't know exactly when one is supposed to arrive, but he does know it's already been several days since the last one, so he has no reason to doubt that what the bridgeman—Adolin—says is true.
Adolin. An interesting name for a darkeyes. A typical lighteyed name, meaning "born unto light," if Kaladin remembers his studies correctly. It's not the first time he's come across a darkeyes with a lighteyed name, but it is the first time he's come across one with slave brands.
That's not the only thing he finds curious about the man he's currently slogging through the chasms with. He seems to defer to Kaladin as a lighteyes well enough on the outside, calling him by his title, offering his help when he thinks Kaladin needs it, even giving him the larger portion of the ration bar earlier. But Kaladin can also see the distrust in his eyes, the glint of rebellion that he tries to hide, and he wonders if there's not more to his story than just being a resentful, darkeyed slave.
He has medical experience—from his mother, he claims—shown in the deft way he wrapped Kaladin's side and the way he has checked on his concussion symptoms over the last half-day. He seems very comfortable with the weapons strapped to his back when he takes them on and off when they stop to rest—not just the way he handles the spear, but how he holds the side sword, too.
And, strangely, he seems to see extraordinarily well in the dark.
Kaladin wants to talk to him more but he's struggling just to keep moving without collapsing, and the bridgeman seems less than enthused at the idea of talking to him right now anyway, so Kaladin just keeps his head down and tries to keep up.
He doesn't even notice he's fallen behind again until he almost bumps straight into the other man, looking up at the last second before stumbling to a halt. He teeters and Adolin's hands whip out to steady him, clasping tightly around Kaladin's biceps.
"We're going to stop here," Adolin says tightly. Kaladin looks at him, blinking, feeling in a daze. He examines Adolin's two-toned hair, golden like those from Rira with strands of Alethi black mixed in. His beard matches, hair of both colors sprouting from his cheeks and chin. Kaladin can't make out the exact shape of his jaw, the beard is too long, but it looks strong and square. His eyes, though at first sight seeming like a solid brown, are instead a mixture of shades, caramels and coffees and the deep brown rumored to be the color of soil in Shinovar, all blending together to create a mesmerizing blend of warm, calming tones.
Kaladin's eyes drift upward and he stares at the brands on the bridgeman's forehead, poorly hidden beneath his short bangs. Sas nahn, slave. Older, healed over with scar tissue. And shash, dangerous. The skin of that one is much pinker, like a wound just barely healed, indicating he received it much more recently than the original slave brands.
"—Highness."
Kaladin blinks, abruptly pulled out of his trance. He finds Adolin staring at him with wide, concerned eyes.
"Thought I told you to call me Kaladin," he mumbles, and then his knees buckle.
The hands around his arms clench tight and then he's being guided gently downward to sit on the chasm floor. The bridgeman kneels next to him and pushes him to lie down completely, head flat on the hard ground, though the man thoughtfully cups his hand around Kaladin's wound there so it doesn't knock against the rock too hard. Kaladin feels irrationally choked up at the small kindness.
"Stay," Adolin says softly but firmly. "Don't move."
He shuffles on his knees toward the bottom half of Kaladin's body, moving around to lift Kaladin's feet into his lap, extra careful of the injured ankle.
"What—?" Kaladin croaks. His voice comes out weak, dark spots dancing merrily at the corners of his vision.
"Just concentrate on breathing right now, okay?" Adolin tells him.
Kaladin closes his eyes and does as he's told.
It's several long minutes before the dizziness fades. Quiet sounds start to filter in, the local flora rustling, the wind slipping softly around the chasm's corners with the occasional low whistle, the small scuttling noises of cremlings racing through lingering puddles and into breaks in the rock walls.
"How are you feeling?"
Kaladin opens his eyes and looks down his body to where the bridgeman sits on his knees, Kaladin's feet propped up on his thighs, hands looped carefully around his upper ankles to hold them in place.
"Better," Kaladin says.
"Good," Adolin replies with a small smile. "Let's stay like this for a bit longer, just until you get some more color back into your face." He doesn't ask permission, or if Kaladin has an opinion; just tells him that this is how it's going to be. It's strangely comforting, and Kaladin trusts him implicitly.
He closes his eyes again, breathing slow and deep. He wants to feel embarrassed about almost fainting but it would take too much energy that he just doesn't have right now, so instead he lies on the hard ground and thinks about nothing, following the colorful dots of light prancing across the backs of his closed lids.
Eventually Adolin gently lowers his feet to the ground and Kaladin can hear pebbles crunch as he shifts back over to Kaladin's side.
"Ready to sit up?"
Kaladin grunts in the affirmative and sucks in a breath, opening his eyes.
The bridgeman is there, holding his arm out for Kaladin to hold onto. He does, and Adolin helps, placing his free hand flat on Kaladin's back for support as they get him upright again.
A mild wave of dizziness passes through Kaladin once he's sitting but it's not as strong as the one earlier, so he breathes through it and eventually it dissipates.
"You good?" Adolin asks, and Kaladin nods.
"Yeah. I'm sorry about that," he says, shame finally beginning to make an appearance.
Adolin shakes his head, looking mildly upset. "No, that was my fault. I knew you were injured. I shouldn't have pushed you so hard."
"Except the highstorm is supposed to come tomorrow," Kaladin replies, "and I'm slowing you down."
"It'll be fine," Adolin says dismissively, but Kaladin knows that's not true.
"Don't lie," he says tightly. "We're not even close to the warcamps yet, are we? There's no way we're going to make it if we have to go at my pace."
Adolin is silent, looking away.
Kaladin stares at the man's profile in the near-darkness of the chasm, then he too looks away.
"I want you to leave me," Kaladin says suddenly into the quiet, his voice firm. "I'm too injured to travel at the speed we need to go to get back in time, and there's no sense in both of us dying." He swallows, and he feels his resolve waver slightly at the idea of being left behind to die alone. He shoves the fear down and pushes forward. "I can— I can give you my Shardblade and the piece of my Plate, and they will be yours once you return. You can start a new life. It's the least you deserve for going out of your way to help me down here; I would have died where I fell if not for you."
When he looks back the bridgeman is staring at him, dark eyes wide and mouth agape. Kaladin opens his mouth to repeat himself just in case his request didn't get through the first time when Adolin barks out an incredulous laugh, and he snaps his mouth shut.
"Wow, that's—" Adolin laughs again disbelievingly, shaking his head. "That's honestly the biggest load of crem I've ever heard."
Kaladin blinks, shocked.
"I'm sorry— What?"
Adolin gives him a look like he's stupid and for the first time in this whole experience Kaladin feels something not entirely complimentary about the other man.
"You really think they wouldn't kill me the second I showed up bearing your Plate and sword?" He asks. "You're a storming prince of Alethkar, your cousin the King would have my damned head."
"That's not how it works," Kaladin insists stubbornly. "Even if they do think we fought for the Shards, you would have defeated me, making them yours by law."
"Yeah, sure," Adolin says, chuckling as he stands and wanders over to the chasm wall nearest them.
"You think my family has so little honor that they would, what, assassinate you?" Kaladin snaps loudly, voice echoing off the towering stone walls.
"Uh, yeah, that's exactly what I think," Adolin retorts, sounding darkly amused as he removes the weapons from his back and stands them against the wall.
"Well you're wrong," Kaladin bites out. "And I don't appreciate the disrespect you show toward my family for assuming otherwise."
Adolin shrugs. "Agree to disagree, I guess. It's not personal, Your Highness— It's not just Kholins I don't trust, it's lighteyes in general."
He looks at Kaladin then rolls his eyes. "Come on, don't act like power doesn't corrupt. Surely you're smart enough to know that much." Kaladin furrows his brow at the backhanded compliment as the bridgeman continues. "And unfortunately, pretty much every lighteyes is born into a position of power. Even the lowest among you has power over us darkeyes and slaves."
Kaladin wants to argue but the unfortunate truth of the matter is that he's not wrong. About lighteyes being born with power, at least. He's still wrong about the other part.
"Well, believe what you want about corruption in society, but I know my family and I know that they would honor your right to keep the Shards. And if you're worried about them thinking you murdered me in my sleep or something then just tell them the truth. Tell them I gave them to you because I was too injured to make it back."
Kaladin's throat closes up as he suddenly imagines their reactions to the news in his mind.
Kaladin, Maya says in his head. I think you're being a little over-dramatic.
I'm not, he thinks. There's no way I'm going to make it back.
I think you're wrong, but even if you're not… Did you ever stop to think that maybe you should ask me what I want first before just giving me away? And your Plate?
Maya's words bring him up short, because no, he didn't. He didn't even consider that they might not want to go to a new master, might prefer to be lost to the chasms and the highstorms, forgotten until they disappear from this plane entirely. He's been selfish, thinking only of himself.
Maybe he's more like what this bridgeman believes him to be than he realizes.
"Okay, well, I'm not leaving you behind, no matter how honorable you think your specific brand of lighteyes may be, so we can just move on from that idea now, alright?" Adolin says, and Kaladin, feeling torn, doesn't respond.
He still thinks the right decision is to let Adolin go on without him. He'll humor the bridgeman a little longer, but if things don't improve soon he'll just have to convince him to do the smart thing and save himself, with or without Kaladin's Blade and Plate.
_____