Chapter Text
Sometimes, Kaladin Stormblessed came to their rooms.
The first time, it was with Sylphrena’s help, the night of a highstorm. That evening when he arrived at their door, he was nearly catatonic.
The word was, he had lost a young squire in the field the day before and it wasn’t pretty—something about the kid and the way he died, they said, had affected him severely. Though, Shallan had to hear speculation about this from the other Windrunners later. Their Highmarshal would not speak for himself on the matter, and Syl could be just as difficult to communicate with, when he got that way. Something to do with their bond, probably.
That night, Shallan sketched. Adolin lounged opposite and flipped through fashion folios, his feet—clad only in socks—propped on the arm of their sofa. The sight of him relaxed in their shared space was intriguing, and she imprinted this very personal view onto the page in her lap—took care to capture the gentle slope of his eyebrows, relaxed as he focused on some detail before flipping the page. It was easy to fall in love with the idea of someone—a fact she understood far better than most—but with Adolin, his true self outshone any fiction she could devise. She studied him as she often did lately, pondering his genuine nature. Not honest without fail, but always kind to those who deserved it. A man who successfully walked the line between rebelling against what his father wanted, and being a man he could be proud of too. The kind of man who would bond two Ryshadium and have a relationship with his dead spren…
A thump on the door made those beautiful eyes break their study of fashion and glance up, but he looked to Shallan rather than at the door. He’d been browsing his folios sure, but his attention, it seemed, had been on her a little bit too.
“Who do you think that could be this time of night?” he wondered, before swinging his legs in front of him and smoothly rising to his feet.
“Your father,” Shallan predicted, imagining a messenger here to disrupt their evening with news of some emergency meeting. Absently, she started shading Adolin's socks from memory. “I’ve no desire to get dressed. He’ll get me clad in a Lightweaving with my pajamas underneath if he expects me to make maps at this hour.”
“How scandalous,” her husband said with a smile as he rounded the sofa and toed his slippers on. Shallan warily tracked his movement into the foyer.
“I can’t guarantee I’ll maintain both illusions either,” she warned, beginning to draw a hole for his big toe to poke through, for variety. “I’m tired and it’s late, after all.”
“I rather think those pajamas are quite fetching. Whatever the outcome, know that I am in full support, dear.” Adolin reached the door from the sound of it, and the silence was sudden.
Then, “…Kal? Storms… Alright, no no, stand up. I’ve got you.”
Shallan looked up, alarmed somewhat. Kaladin, as far as she was aware, hadn’t even been in the city today. He was off on some mission. More than that, what concerned her was the change in her husband’s tone—like he was speaking to a skittish, wild animal, or a child. She set aside her sketching and padded to the door herself.
The leader of the Windrunners did not look good, stood shakily in their doorway, an anxious and visible Sylphrena on his shoulder. That last fact alone added to the wrongness of the whole thing, even without considering his soaked clothing or the dark curls plastered to the sides of his neck and face. The honorspren’s expression was frantic and pleading as she spotted Shallan and zipped over, leaving her Radiant with Adolin.
“Please, let him stay here for a while,” she said. “Getting him here was so hard.”
“What’s going on with him?” Shallan asked, eyeing Kaladin as he swayed on their rug. Adolin shut the door behind him, one hand firmly gripping the taller man’s upper arm to keep him presumably from sitting down right there. The Highmarshal, usually such an imposing figure in his blue uniform, didn’t even seem to notice he was being manhandled. His eyes were unseeing, haunted, and icy blue from summoning his blade. Whatever had happened to put him in this state, it had happened recently enough that the color had yet to fade.
Kaladin’s tiny spren regarded him anxiously, her voice just as small as she seemed to shrink in on herself. “He’s not okay,” she said, but failed to elaborate. “Please.”
So he stayed.
He did not speak, and they didn’t force him to after their initial failed attempts. Instead, Adolin helped him change into dry clothes, guiding him in a calm, quiet voice all the while, and settled him on the sofa he’d previously occupied himself. Shallan suspected Kaladin had been outside in the highstorm from the looks of it, though he appeared uninjured—just very wet. Unsure what else to do for him, the newlyweds situated him with a cup of tea to warm his hands and let him be, doing their best to create a safe environment for whatever he was going through. Shallan sat and slowly resumed her drawing, making light small-talk with her husband in muted tones. Though it was late, neither of them felt especially tired anymore.
Eventually, after about an hour, Kaladin blinked and seemed to notice the mug in his hands. He sniffed the now room-temperature beverage, and glanced up as if seeing them both for the first time.
“Adolin? …Shallan?” he said. Kaladin looked at each of them in turn, his eyes widening as he took in their apartment. It was as though he was coming to—like he’d been asleep. “What am I… how…?” Storms, he’d sounded so young, almost childlike in his confusion. It hurt to see him in that state, though a large part of her watched him with interest. He’d had no awareness of his surroundings or who he was with, had he?. She wondered how Syl managed to get him here in the first place.
The couple shared a look.
“Hey Kaladin,” Adolin asked gently, sitting up straighter. “You’re in our apartment. Can you tell me what you were doing out in the highstorm? Are you injured?” He spoke in the same tone he’d used to guide the Windrunner through Shadesmar all those months ago. Now that Shallan thought of it, he’d been in exactly this sort of state then too, though she herself had been busy at the time and left Adolin to handle him. Battle fatigue again? She caught Adolin’s eyes again and could see the same concern reflected there—did Dalinar know how bad things were?
Kaladin didn’t respond except to shake his head ‘no,’ though to which question he was responding was unclear. Tears gathered in his eyes and started streaming down his stubbled face, gathering at his jawline and the crease of his lips. But then he was staring blankly again, not even making a sound as he trembled in place. They didn’t get another word out of him. Syl had vanished, and refused to show herself again.
He ended up sleeping there, curled up in some blankets on their couch, nodding off at the odd hours of the morning.
~~~~
After that night, blessedly, he found his way to their rooms next on somewhat easier terms. Actually…Veil dragged him home one night, to be more accurate. She was drunk, and Kaladin perhaps a little bit tipsy. In an impressive feat of performance art, she managed to convince him she needed to be flown to her bedchamber or she would almost certainly get lost or mugged.
“You’re a storming Radiant,” he’d objected, serious as ever. “Who in this place could hurt you? Also, I know for a fact you have a good sense of direction—or did you think I forgot how you singlehandedly mapped the Shattered Plains from inside a chasm?”
Veil did her best impression of a weepy drunk. “That’s Shallan with the sense of direction, not me!” she insisted. “And she’s resting.”
“Wake her up,” he said, heartlessly, though he looked unsure now. “I’m…busy.” Veil hid a smile. She had him.
“Busy doing what? Drinking? Nice, Kaladin. Make sure you tell Adolin that when I wind up in a ditch somewhere with no Stormlight. How very honorable of you.”
He eyed her skeptically, but that was all it took. Pattern, who’d chosen to adorn her hat for the evening, was positively abuzz from her lies as her fellow Radiant sucked in Stormlight, scowling spectacularly.
When they arrived—cutting quite a dramatic figure together with Veil draped over his arms as he climbed in through the window—Adolin took one look at her and burst out laughing.
“Oh, you didn’t,” he laughed, coming over to scoop the woman who shared his wife’s body from Kaladin’s arms and deposit her cackling form on the floor. The still glowing bridgeman gaped at her, betrayed.
“You—“
Adolin thumped him on the back. “Thanks for the delivery, Kal” he said pleasantly, with a lopsided smile. “Much appreciated.”
It was early in the evening and Adolin appeared to have just retired for the day, still dressed in his subtly opulent fashion that stretched the Kholin uniform a bit further than it’s utilitarian base intended. Veil appreciated the artistry of it, even if Adolin’s aesthetic wasn’t entirely her cuppa. Shallan though, resting somewhere in their shared consciousness, was surely swooning at the sight of him.
I’m not the only one, either,” the redhead concurred. Veil eyeballed the flustered Highmarshal slyly as she flopped drunkenly onto her butt and removed her hat. No, you couldn’t miss the indulgent ‘sizing up’ he allowed himself each time his favorite highprince was around—eyes drinking in Adolin’s full-lipped smile and artfully tousled hair. It was automatic. An attraction he barely allowed himself to acknowledge—much like when he had a hard time admitting he had a thing for a very specific lighteyed woman. Veil wondered if he’d ever completely grow out of those old prejudices, now that he was a lighteyes himself.
“A Windrunner flying you six-plus stories is much faster than taking a lift, you see,” she drawled lazily, grinning when Kaladin’s eyes snapped indignantly from their regard of Adolin. He was even blushing a bit, how sweet.
Kaladin scowled, fully reddening now in embarrassment, realizing just how completely he’d been had.
“Storming lighteyes…! She told me—- bah!” He made an attempt to escape, turning on his heel towards the window, but Adolin chuckled and tugged him back with a fist in his coat.
“Forget what she told you, you know she’s a menace. Stay a while.”
“Yeah, forget what I told you. I know I did,” Veil agreed, fully sprawling out on the plush rug now like a sleepy axehound. She closed her eyes and storms the room was spinning, wasn’t it? “Who are you calling ‘lighteyes,’ anyway, Brightlord Stormfaced?” She toed at the blond to get his attention. “Adolin, look I brought you a bridgeboy. Found him in the wild.”
“I see him, thank you,” Adolin said, adjusting his grip on Kaladin’s coat to keep him from fleeing. Veil noticed he let Adolin get away with that sort of thing, while she couldn’t imagine anyone else even attempting it. “Stay and have a drink, Kal.”
Without waiting for an answer, Shallan’s husband decidedly latched their shutters, barring the Windrunner’s exit route. Somehow, Kaladin managed to scowl harder. It was almost impressive.
“No thanks,” he said stiffly, folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t much appreciate being toyed with, or trapped. Besides, I think I’ve had plenty of alcohol and poor decision-making for one evening.”
Adolin raised an eyebrow and rolled his eyes. “Stop being dramatic. We have orange.” He turned to the dark-haired woman on the floor next and scolded her anyway. “Veil, you know he doesn’t like being toyed with.”
She attempted to look properly chastised.
“See? She’s sorry.”
Pattern, still adorning Veil’s hat, hummed loudly and they all looked at him. Veil snickered, and Adolin nudged her in the hip playfully with his boot. She reached out her gloved safehand and began untying his laces, and his eyes danced as he peered down at her. Shallan really did swoon then—or was that the room spinning again?
“Oh do get off the floor,” he told her.
“Naw~ M’ good.”
He nudged her again and chuckled when she merely rolled on her side and started on his second boot. “Disgraceful. You’d better burn that off so Shallan doesn’t wake up useless tomorrow.”
Kaladin looked between them in dismay, then let his eyes roam around the room, perhaps recalling the last time he’d been there. It had been a couple of weeks, and Shallan had recruited Veil to keep an eye on him—subtly of course—whenever possible. She was busy with her own missions, but keeping a set of eyes on her fellow Radiant served to put both her’s and Adolin’s minds at ease. It was because of this task that she’d ‘ended up’ in the same drinking establishment as him this evening—caught him alone with a rare cup of alcoholic red wine and in the beginnings of a very Kaladin-like spiral. It just wouldn’t do, of course.
She’d had to think fast, but looking at him now—sober once more from Stormlight and exasperated at their antics—she knew she’d succeeded in nipping that in the bud. Quite the successful con, if she should say so.
“Forgive me?” she suggested.
Kaladin eyeballed her suspiciously for a moment, as though he knew her thoughts, before pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d made up his mind. “Ugh, fine.”
They ended up playing cards while Adolin stepped out and ordered down for dinner, continuing their one-on-one game even when the blond returned. Kaladin was terrible at cards. Too honest.
Veil beat him three times before he finally pushed away from the table and took a long pull of his drink—the orange Adolin promised. “I should go,” he said for like the fifth time, probably.
“Nope,” Adolin said firmly. He had taken the seat to Veil’s left, and had thrown one arm over the back of her chair.
Kaladin grunted, but didn’t leave. Swirling his cup, he looked between the two of them, then around the room once more. Finally, he sighed.
“You two don’t need to do this, you know.”
Adolin hummed, sipping his own wine. Veil caught the glance he shot her. “What’s that?” he said mildly.
The Windrunner was quiet for long moment, appearing to work himself up to something before answering. Shallan perked up at the rawness, the intensity that wrapped around this man. The momentum he had was intoxicating, but propelled, in truth, a human being. It was easy to forget it sometimes, when he was at his best. In moments like these, it was impossible not to feel ashamed that like everyone else, she was blinded by the idea of him. She wanted to draw him, but Veil stayed in control. For whatever reason, she put Kaladin at ease in ways Shallan just didn’t.
“It’s just… odd,” Kaladin said, “being here. And acting like…like the last time I was here, you didn’t see me broken. I never wanted that…never wanted to burden either of you.”
He set his drink down.
“…Kaladin,” Veil tried.
“No, just—“ he rubbed roughly at his eyes, voice like so many stones grinding together. “Let me just say thank you… for— For letting me stay, that time. It isn’t always like that for me, but that day it was worse than usual. And… and sorry. It isn’t something you should have had to deal with. I spoke with Syl and she won’t be—”
Veil kept quiet, but reached across the table and took his hand, earning a surprised sound from him. This was not her area—the being comforting and supportive thing. She squeezed in acknowledgment of the question in his eyes, but that was all she could manage.
Adolin, however, met him where he was—sat forward and faced him, forced an eye contact that rivaled the Windrunner’s intensity with his own sincerity. For all Adolin claimed he couldn’t do the ‘stare’ like his father, the look he gave Kaladin could have made a king sit down and listen.
“We don’t need your thanks, Kaladin, and storms do not apologize. What I’d like from you instead is a promise that when it is like that, you won’t try to do it alone. You come here, do you understand? We will take care of you, no matter how bad it gets.”
Kaladin’s expression, a mask of determination, crumbled. And it was painful. Sobered Veil right up.
“I’m intruding in your space. Filling it with negativity. There’s no way that—”
“We want you here,” Adolin said. “And you’re not a burden.”
“I…,” he said, voice cracking. “I can’t accept it. I cannot fathom it.”
Adolin sighed and glanced away a moment, weighing what he wanted to say—-ever diplomatic. He looked back, and spoke gently.
“So don’t try to understand. I’m not asking you to see yourself how I—how we see you Kal. I know it is hard for you. But I am telling you to promise me.” He smiled. “That is an order, soldier.”
Kaladin swallowed. Whatever objection was hovering on his lips faltered, and he blinked wetly, raising his eyes to the ceiling.
“Storms, Adolin.”
Veil sipped her wine, and squeezed his hand one more time for good measure. After a long moment, he squeezed back and released a shaky breath.
“Okay,” he said finally, barely audible in their quiet apartment. “I promise.”
~~~
He did keep his promise, though to Adolin’s relief, ‘it’ didn’t happen often at all. Instead, Kaladin began spending more time with them in general.
They would go out together regularly now, and he would frequently find excuses to follow them back to their rooms—and neither he nor Shallan were complaining. If there was one thing Adolin knew about the former bridgeman, it was that his habits of isolation were progressive. It started out slow—he’d spend more and more of his free time away from his men—and before you knew it, no one had seen the Kaladin in a relaxed, non-work setting in weeks, including his closest friends. Catching it early was the key. Sure, he had to impose himself upon the grumpy man at the risk of being insulted and told to ‘go away, I don’t want to see you’ but Adolin knew he didn’t mean it and that ‘no’ in this case really meant ‘push me just a little, but not too hard.’ Having quite the catalog of courtships with lighteyed women under his belt, he regarded Kaladin’s version of ‘hard-to-get’ as tame compared to some.
Not that he was courting Kaladin, really, and perhaps that wasn’t the right word to describe what went on between the three of them. Though, he had to admit the sour-faced man just seemed to fit in the cozy little space he and Shallan had carved out for him.
It was important never to truly force someone to do anything, of course, but Adolin felt confident in his ability to tell the difference. And bridgeboy? While in most aspects of his life he was an undisputed leader, he was also the type who needed a guiding hand in this one. There was no shame in that.
So, the night that the Highmarshal admitted Dalinar had retired him from duty, he didn’t take Kaladin’s ‘no’ for an answer.
“You’re staying with us tonight,” he’d informed Kaladin firmly, taking his arm to lead him towards the lifts and his and Shallan’s rooms. Away from the corridor that led to his own.
Veil, hands in pockets, led the way whilst in some sort of good natured argument with her spren. Still, he could tell she was listening by the way she angled her body and the little nod of agreement she gave at his words. He knew she would have no objection, but he looked to her for permission anyway. Theirs was a partnership—or a democracy he supposed, if you counted all three of her as separate, as she preferred.
“What?” Kaladin protested, predictably. “Adolin, no.”
The former slave tore his arm free and he allowed it. The thing was, there was nothing Adolin could do make him—a Radiant of the third ideal—stay if he didn’t want to. But he did want to. Kaladin lagged a little behind but continued to follow once released, and Adolin smiled. Watching his mood slowly thaw into something manageable throughout the evening had been like unwrapping a present.
“You admitted to me,” he reasoned, “that you shouldn’t be alone tonight. Do you remember?”
Kaladin frowned and rolled his eyes. “Yes, but—“
“Just give it up Kaladin,” Veil said, turning to walk backwards. She was pretty hammered, but managed not to trip somehow. “You’re not going to win this battle, eh, husband?”
Adolin winked at her. “I’m very persuasive.”
“You’re entitled, is what you are,” Kaladin said, though he smiled a little as he said it. He was making no move to lose them either, matching their unhurried pace to their rooms without any encouragement.
“Truth,” Veil agreed, sharing a grin with Kaladin.
Adolin snorted. “Say I am! I can own that. Right now, I feel entitled to an evening—and night—with my drunk little Lightweaver and my bridgeboy. It’s the least I deserve, frankly.”
He delighted in the way the term of implied ownership made Kaladin’s eyes widen indignantly, and the way his cheeks flushed just so. Kaladin frowned at the air near his shoulder. Syl must be there, though she chose not to appear to the rest of them.
Adolin smothered a smile and met Veil’s eyes. She chuckled knowingly. “Yes, Brightlord Kholin,” she sang cheekily, wickedly. “I suppose we can both of us humor your lofty whims.”
“Oi!” A hint of Shallan peeking through, was it?
That woman. He very nearly forgot they weren’t alone and slapped her ass for it, but instead glided his gaze back to the flustered bridgeman. He’d shoved his hands in his pockets and seemed conflicted, brooding in that way of his.
Veil seemed to have similarly shifted her focus, and fell back to walk in step with him.
“Right Kaladin?” she prompted. “Together, maybe we can keep this spoiled prince from throwing a tantrum.”
He floundered for words, so many half-formed emotions flitting across his handsome face. When he showed no sign of responding, she blew a raspberry and snatched his arm, confidently lacing her freehand fingers through his. He didn’t stop her. He did however, immediately look to Adolin. His eyes said ‘what do I do?’
Well, he was just going to have to figure that out for himself, Adolin thought, giving no answer except a knowing smile. After a moment of bemusement, Kaladin lowered his gaze again—so storming tall—and gave her a hesitant smile of his own.
“You two really do have the strangest relationship,” he told her softly.
“Works though,” she said, and Adolin silently agreed. We three, he amended to himself.