Come me boys and heave with me
Though we dream one day to flee
And train our spears in caverns deep
Freedom only comes when you sleep
Winter had come for a season. Morning shift today meant he woke up before dawn, Cavern Duty as always. The army only gave the bridgemen an extra scrap to serve as an undershirt. They weren't supposed to survive, so why bother equipping them with proper coats? Running worked them hard enough to stay warm anyhow. Though the chill might set deep into the bones of those who sat around between runs, Bridge Four kept moving. Moash drilled even on their breaks.
Block, thrust, turn. Block, strike, thrust, turn.
He expected the cavern walls to provide some shelter from the cold, but instead they acted as a funnel for the freezing air, and a biting wind set Moash's teeth on edge. The one good thing about working in sandals: it didn't take long for your feet to go numb, and after that, stepping in the icy puddles didn't hurt so much.
Block, thrust, thrust, thrust. Shout! Turn.
It was a simple kata, not the flashy demonstration Kaladin made all those weeks ago. Shame he would probably never learn that. Most of the time, Teft kept them practicing drills and sparring–practical moves that would hopefully serve them use in an actual fight. They had to do away with formalities like kata if the Plan were to work, but some small part of Moash still wanted to be a real soldier. No denying the competitive streak. He wanted to be the best, maybe even better than Kaladin one day. But first, he had to learn. His grip on the spear tightened.
Block, thrust, turn. Block, thrust, turn.
The Plan was the only thing that pulled him out of bed and pushed him to train as hard as he did. Thoughts of freedom consumed his every waking minute. Before, he hated the lordling for trying to preserve them. What's the point of living if you can't be your own man, after all? Wouldn't it just be better to die and end the misery? Once, he might have been the wretch that ended it all at Honor Chasm, only for other bridgemen to pick over his body later. That changed when he saw the way their bridge-leader held a spear. He saw that Kaladin, too, longed for something different from the life the brightlords trapped them in.
Block, thrust, thrust, thrust. Shout! Turn.
When the madman invented the side carry, and survived the Highstorm, Moash slowly realized that the ultimate spite to the brightlords who had put them here would be to keep living, and to enjoy doing it. Even though their lives were bleak and bloody, he changed the moment Kaladin handed him a spear. The weapon beat away the hopeless apathy. It beat away the painful memories and the ache in his chest. He wished it could beat away Gaz's mocking sneers and Lamaril's livid screaming.
Sweep, pivot, sweep.
One day he hoped he would have the chance to ram the business end of his spear right into Sadeas's gut. One day he hoped he would slash out Elhokar's arteries and watch him bleed out slowly. Wishful thinking. He'd be lucky if he survived the week.
Even if he never escaped this cursed place, he refused to be bowed in deference to the brightlords who'd made his life a living nightmare. When they waited for the army to cross the bridge, he stood side by side with Teft and Kaladin, watching the column pass. He refused to acknowledge their presence, but he delighted in the way they squirmed every time he made the crisp Bridge Four salute. He wore the brands on his forehead as a mark of pride.
Stab.
Shout!
"Attention, Moash!"
He snapped into stance and leveled his gaze on the shorter bridgeman. No one else had stood up from where they rested, huddled together in the lee of the stone walls.
"At ease."
"I want to keep working."
"At ease, Moash," Teft repeated. "No use in tiring yourself out. We need your spear when it counts for something, not just slashing at the air."
He grunted his understanding, moved to the sheltered pocket, and fell into parade rest. Teft followed, and they stood beside each other, just out of the biting wind. Lopen handed Moash a skin, and he drank gladly of the half-frozen water.
"You're good, y'know," Teft said finally. "Your stances could use some work, but your form is sharp. I wouldn't want to face you."
Moash grinned. "If I'm that good, would you teach me the next one?"
"We don't have-"
"I know, I know we don't have time," Moash cut him off. "I want to learn, though. Would Kaladin teach me? Where is he anyhow?"
"Busy."
"Busy? Did he really go scavenging with Lopen?"
"Something like that. You'll find out soon enough."
Moash shrugged, but didn't protest. Kaladin was probably scheming up something clever to buy them life for a few more days, and he would help with whatever their captain needed. Even if that meant running in front of the bridge, Almighty, he would do it. Bridge Four saved his life and revived his hope of ever avenging his grandparents. A futile hope, probably, but one he held as close as his spheres. He settled back against the cavern wall to rest, and no sooner had he sat down did Teft call them to attention again. To his left, Drehy groaned. Moash grinned and reached for his spear.
…
Every muscle in his body protested when Moash collapsed onto his mat that evening. He was exhausted but full of good stew and warm for the first time that day from the campfire. Kaladin, Rock, and Teft stayed up discussing some matter or another, and though part of him wanted to sit with them and be a part of their scheme, a bigger part of him needed to finally lay down. He reached for the threadbare blanket, and welcomed the numb, dark release of a dreamless sleep. The faint sounds of singing filtered through the barracks, and though he didn't join them in their song, for a moment, he was content in the dim night.
He dreaded waking up in the morning.
Four hours / Carryin' our load
Four hours / Sloggin' in the rain
Four hours / No, we won't be bowed
Then, four hours / 'til it starts again
"English teacher brain: I'm going to use juxtaposition! Moash is seen as a firey and hotheaded character, but in later books he becomes cold and unempathetic, driven only by revenge. The winter weather is a symbol for his character arc and the dramatic irony of…
Projection brain: *whining* but I don't wanna take my socks off to do karate! This floor is concrete and it is January."
Yes, that's right, January. I wrote this over three months ago, but then school started and I don't know what happened to the time. If anyone is still reading this, thanks for putting up with the delay and my weather metaphors!