Chapter Text
Kaladin ran, his feet striking the cobblestone as he made his way up the winding road. His lungs burned from exertion as he weaved and ducked through the bustling streets. The air was still cold and crisp, carrying the scent of salt as a chilly breeze picked up. The sun had just begun to rise, its rays slowly warming the frozen world around him, yet couriers, dockworkers, and other darkeyes were already up and about.
The narrow streets of Kharbranth suddenly opened as Kaladin sprinted past the main thoroughfare, watching the first rays of sun touch the top of the Palanaeum with trepidation.
He was already late for their first home visit.
Orholin would have his head.
Kaladin grimaced; he could almost hear his mother’s voice chiding him for his tardiness. It wasn't a rare occurrence these days, but much as he tried, Kaladin simply couldn’t sleep. His legs moved out of habit, but he felt like he was still asleep inside his skin.
He wasn’t the only one running. Kaladin ducked into an alley and quickly swerved at a flash of burnt orange fabric, where a familiar dark-haired young man caught up to him. His laugh reverberated across the narrow street as he ran, elbowing Kaladin with a lopsided grin.
“Late again, Kal?” The youth huffed.
“You are one to talk.” Kaladin retorted.
“Why do home visits have to be so early?” the young man complained. Avaran looked enough like Kaladin to be a brother, if Kaladin ever smiled like he meant it.
He was tall with tanned skin, and his smile had a charming, crooked quality. Recently, he had shed some of the awkwardness of youth, revealing the hints of the handsome man he was becoming. Avaran was fully aware of this transformation and used it like a finely crafted weapon to his advantage. He brushed his dark curls away from his dark green eyes, only for them to bounce right back into place.
It drove Kaladin to distraction; fortunately for his ego, he wasn’t the only one.
“Orholin will do it one of these days, you know,” he teased, eyes tracking Avaran’s shiny, dark hair, “Cut those curls.”
“Pfha! He wouldn’t dare touch my hair!”
“It gets in your eyes,” Kaladin grinned. The threat was so routine by now that it had lost all meaning. Avaran’s carefree retort rebuffed him, “Nallana loves my curls, and he wouldn’t dare upset her.”
Kaladin rolled his eyes.
“You are so in love with the sound of your voice,” he huffed, “it’s a wonder anyone else can speak over--”
“Do you even know where you are going?” Avaran said, trying to jab at Kaladin’s ribs, but missing as the young man ducked and swatted back.
“Yes, I do,” Kaladin said confidently.
“Interesting,” The young man flashed a toothy smile, “Because we’ve just missed the turn.”
“Storms!”
Cursing, the pair turned, Avaran taking the lead as they made their way through the narrow, cobbled streets. “They changed the assignment last night, didn’t you read the board?”
Kaladin hadn’t; he had spent last night in his bed, under the covers, feeling the weight of everything he had left behind.
At his pointed silence, Avaran shot him a curious look.
"There’s no need to thank me," he said generously, pulling Kaladin from his thoughts.
“I’m not- You owe me anyway,” Kaladin said flippantly, pushing down the dark thoughts brewing at the pit of his stomach.
They arrived at a nondescript house, wedged in a row with other crem-covered houses. Clotheslines flapped lazily overhead in the early morning breezes, accompanied by the familiar tinkle of far-off bells and the muffled wails of a woman.
“Kelek’s breath!” Kaladin cursed. His knuckles were barely on the door when it swung open, and Janalla’s surly face greeted the pair.
She had keen, light brown eyes and a frown that could strip paint from walls. Her dark hair was in its customary long braid, and her long, pale eyebrows tucked away neatly behind her ears. She was already in the midst of things, it seemed; a long, light blue apron partially covered her burnt orange uniform, and her bandolier was strapped across her chest.
To Kaladin’s embarrassment, the glove on her safe hand was fingerless, as always when they practiced. He tried, and by her sharp, knowing look, failed not to blush.
She had elegant hands and delicate wrists, though he knew not to comment; she had cursed the last boy who had dared. It was frustrating enough to be in her shadow: she was as smart as the heralds, and didn’t care to hide it.
It didn’t help that she was a lighteyes that cursed like a sailor.
“By the passions, do you need a stormin’ invitation?”
“Mornin’ Janny,” Avaran greeted.
“Jump into the harbor, Avaran,” She snorted, stepping aside and giving them both a once over before poking Kaladin’s chest with her freehand, “I’d expect tardiness from this lout, but not from you, Hearthstone.” She closed the door behind them with a thunk, “Don’t let this one drag you to his level.”
At that, Avaran bristled, though Kaladin knew some of the offence on his face was nothing but posturing. “I’d have you know Kal was tardy all on his own today!”
A strained wail cut off their childish bickering, and a deep masculine voice, “Janalla!”
The young Thaylenna flushed before her face set with determination.
“Coming!”
She turned toward the stairs and bounded up quickly, leaving the pair to follow. Kaladin trailed after her, trying not to show how winded he was as the sounds of distress grew louder.
A door flew open ahead. A man stumbled out, dark hair in disarray, eyes wide, hands shaking, and bloodied. Fearspren, like purple, floating goop, floated around him. His mouth opened, but no words came—only silence, the sound caught in his throat.
“Girl!” came a sharp, familiar voice. Orholin.
The room was a whirlwind. A darkeyed woman crouched on the bed, clinging to sheets strung from a beam above. Her face was pale, her body trembling as she moaned. The bedding beneath her was slick with blood.
Too much blood.
She writhed as another contraction struck, gasping, her eyes wide with pain and fear as the intruders entered. With each strained moan, the gathered hoard of Painspren seemed to ripple in excitement; it was disturbing.
Leaning over her swollen belly, with a hearing horn pressed to the young woman’s skin, was Orholin.
His expression was set—grim, and focused. It sharpened further when he saw the three enter.
“Get in here,” he commanded.
Kaladin obeyed at once.
He took in the woman’s colorless skin, trembling fingers, and hollow, exhausted eyes.
“How long has she been in labor?” he asked, calm and steady, walking to the basin to scrub his hands.
“Thirty hours, maybe more,” Orholin replied, never looking away.
Kaladin blinked.
“How far apart are the contractions?”
“A minute or so, but they’re turning irregular,” Orholin said with a nod, approval glinting in his eyes.
Janalla scurried to the woman’s other side. Not to be outdone, she pressed careful fingers to the taut belly, her eyes closing in concentration. Her grimace confirmed Kaladin’s fears.
He could hear his father’s measured voice:
Long labor. Too much blood, all they were missing—
“The babe isn’t sitting right,” Janalla murmured. She looked at Orholin, not noticing the mother’s glance of panic. “She’s bleeding too much.”
Orholin motioned Kaladin and Avaran forward and passed the hearing horn to Kaladin. He dropped to one knee beside the woman, listening.
For a moment, their eyes met. The young woman’s face was soaked with sweat, her eyes full of terror. Her lips moved, a plea without sound.
Kaladin heard her frantic heartbeat, the muscles clenching—
—but not the child.
“The cradle has torn,” he said quietly.
He looked up, meeting Orholin’s gaze. Then Janalla’s.
“If we wait longer, we’ll lose them both.”
Janalla stiffened, her safe hand curling to a fist. “You’re suggesting—”
“We cut the babe free,” Kaladin said. “There’s no other way.”
“We could try changing her position,” Janalla insisted, turning to Orholin. “Ease the child’s passing—”
“It’s too late,” Kaladin said. “She’s too weak to push. The labor’s gone on too long. And if the strain hasn’t already torn her womb—”
Avaran made a sound behind them as he paled. “Storms…”
Then came Orholin’s voice again—solid, grounding—but Kaladin barely heard it as the mother gripped his arm tightly.
“P-please,” she gasped. “This is my first—my first child. I don’t—I don’t—”
“It’ll be all right.” Kaladin’s voice came out low and sure. He gripped her hand and hoped she couldn’t hear the racing beat of his heart, “I promise.”
He could feel Orholin watching, but the old man said nothing.
“Please,” she whispered again, weaker now.
“I promise,” he said again.
She slumped.
Silence.
Then Orholin stood, wiping his hands, and commanded:
“Bring me a blade. Kaladin, you stay.”
Janalla moved to obey, but she gave Kaladin a sidelong look as she passed him. Her voice was quiet. “Let’s hope you’re as right as you sound.”
Kaladin didn’t answer. His eyes had fallen on the man outside, who was collapsed in the corridor, murmuring prayers.
For the first time, Kaladin’s voice shook slightly.
“We’ll save them. If we’re fast.”
Upstairs, a babe cried—a thin, reedy sound, startling in its smallness.
Kaladin sank onto the low bench outside, the sharp echo of life still ringing in his ears. His hands rested on his knees, palms up, stained faintly red. He had always imagined they’d be rough with calluses from the spear.
Not... this.
He’d dreamed of battle—of parades and glory—of being someone who protected. But protection, he was learning, wasn’t always loud. Sometimes it was quiet.
Bloody. Terrifying.
Sometimes it left you trembling beside a stranger while her child screamed into the light.
He didn’t know when it had happened—when the battlefield had become the birthing bed,
When the enemy had stopped wearing armor and started coming in the form of a stopped heartbeat or a torn womb.
When victory became the sudden relief on a father’s face as he held his firstborn son.
Lirin would be proud.
The thought turned sour in Kaladin’s mouth.
He didn’t want to think about his father. About his triumph. About becoming what he had once dreamed of being. The elation he had felt a moment before slipped into shame. It wouldn’t matter how many lives he saved when he had failed to save the one that meant the most.
Kaladin’s heart ached, beating with the cadence of his little brother’s name, and though it was still early morning, Kaladin felt suddenly, bone-deep exhausted.
Boots thumped down the stairs, and Kaladin raised his head.
Avaran gave him a small smile as he hurried past while Janalla waited at Orholin’s side. The man’s voice was low as he spoke his parting words to the ragged-looking husband. Unlike Kaladin, Orholin looked unchanged—steady and unflappable as a boulder. His square beard was neatly trimmed, streaked through with silver, and his hair was neatly combed back, as if they weren’t elbow deep in surgery just moments before.
Kaladin wondered if anything but a highstorm could ever shake that calm.
Janalla’s boots thumped on the creaking wooden floor. She stopped before Kaladin, tucking a long, pale eyebrow behind her ear, saying: “We’re going back to the Concourse, are you coming?”
Kaladin’s eyes flicker to her fingers, which fidgeted with the fabric of her light blue apron.
“Go ahead, I’ll follow.”
She nodded crisply and didn’t look back as she left, Avaran waiting at the door.
Breathing deeply, Kaladin rubbed his tired eyes before blinking as Orholin sat beside him. The older man sighed, thoughtfully caressing his short-trimmed white beard. They sat in silence for a beat or two, listening to the young life above them, hearing the murmur of the new parents cooing at the baby.
“I was—” Kaladin began.
“That was—” Orholin said at the same time, then closed his mouth, smiling.
He hummed as Kaladin blushed, motioning for him to speak first. Kaladin took a deep breath, looking at his hands as he said, “I thought it would get easier.”
His eyes flickered as Orholin chuckled heavily, “It will, son, with time.”
“But that’s all anyone says,” Kaladin grumbles, remembering his father’s words, “Never when, or how.”
“They never do,” Orholin agreed, rubbing his bad knee back and forth. Kaladin could tell he was itching for a smoking pipe—an odd vice for a healer.
Orholin was a peculiar character, full of contradictions.
He dressed like an ardent but wasn’t one. Although the Concourse employed him, he lived in a small house instead of the surgeon’s quarters. He was respected and well-known, yet he practiced at odd hours and visited houses and small clinics, even when he could have held a high position in any reputable hospital in the city.
He chose to take Kaladin in before the Concourse had accepted him into the students’ quarters.
Orholin had been patient and supportive, even when Kaladin was at his worst.
“You did well today, " the aged man hums. “You were observant and quick to solve problems--”
“--I was just doing--”
“What I taught you, yes. But you were also precise, concise, and kind.”
“Kind?”
“It’s easy to get lost in the detail of it all,” He said gravely, catching Kaladin’s gaze, and holding it, “Bones, muscles, blood- but at the end of the day, we work with people.”
“And people are storming complicated.” Kaladin snorted.
“That they are.”
Bit by bit, Kaladin relaxed. Orholin had that air about him, an assurance that things would continue to plod along. Kaladin wished he were that unshakeable.
“She’ll be alright, won’t she?” Kaladin asked, trying and failing to push down his nervousness. His ears warmed as Orholin gave him a long, knowing look.
“She has a long recovery ahead of her, which you will oversee.” He said sternly before his voice softened. “But she’s strong and young. Thanks to you, there are many years and pregnancies ahead of her.”
“If she’ll want to go through that horrifying ordeal again,” Kaladin murmured.
“People are funny like that,” Orholin chuckled, “Enduring, strong, and stubborn.”
He looked at kaladin until the latter looked away, feeling something warm in his chest.
Orholin rose from the low bench, sighing, “Come on, the day is still early.”
Kaladin perked up and followed his mentor out of the stuffy house. The sun had risen while they worked, and the breeze was refreshing as it blew past, with a swarm of windspren following in tow.
Fiddling with his robes, Kaladin’s eyes followed the dancing spren. He almost ran into Orholin’s back when the older surgeon stopped abruptly. Kaladin glanced around, trying to see what had stopped the man in his tracks, but he only saw some people milling around, minding their business.
“Are you going on another home visit or-” Kaladin said, looking around.
“Go to the Concourse,” Orholin cut him off, “Wind down, and eat breakfast.”
“--but I--”
“You’ve done well, lad, go rest.” He ordered, and at Kaladin’s pleading look, he added in a gentler tone, “There will be more home visits.”
“I-” Kaladin wanted to argue, but something in Orholin’s face kept the words in his mouth. There was a tension in the old man that he had never seen before.
A crack in the unmovable boulder.
“I-, well, alright,” Kaladin said.
His stomach swooped as Orholin turned and walked off without a word.
Kaladin stood frozen, a chill worming beneath his ribs.
What in the Heralds’ tenth name was that?
He’d once thought protection meant standing firm, shield raised against the storm.
But now, the man he trusted most was walking away—and he wasn’t allowed to follow.