Shallan

Shallan awoke abruptly to a tapping noise on her door. Platoon Fifteen was housed in two soulcast stone buildings. Each building contained two bunkrooms that held twenty four beds each, a massive washroom for the men to share, and private officer's quarters. Shallan was taking full advantage of the lock on her door and had been sleeping in nothing but an oversized shirt all week.

"Yes," she called. It felt like every single one of her muscles was sore. She'd been in the army for months now, but it apparently wasn't enough to prepare her for Lieutenant Kaladin's training.

"Lieutenant? Message for you from the captain," said a woman's voice.

"Sorry, he's in the other bunker." Shallan groaned as she forced herself to sit up.

"Oh. That's not what the sign says."

The messenger was right, and Shallan had noticed that the day she moved into her rooms, but she couldn't say anything. Jushu Davar, being unable to read, would have no way of knowing that the sign on the door of his newly assigned quarters read 'Platoon Leader.' So Shallan had held her tongue. Now it was someone else's problem.

"Sorry," she said, "I'm new here and I just did what I was told."

The messenger left and Shallan trudged over to her washbasin and splashed some water on her face and neck. Pattern was annoyingly chipper. Shallan really wished spren could sleep, so that he would understand what it was like to hate mornings. Especially mornings like this one. Her routine took twice as long as usual, with every motion agony for her sore muscles. She was just adjusting the bindings on her chest when there was another knock on the door.

"Yes?"

"Ensign Davar, I need to speak with you," came the voice through the door. It was Lieutenant Kaladin.

"Just a moment I'm not presentable," she replied, quickly pulling a shirt over her head.

"This is the army, not a trip to a play or whatever it is you lighteyes do with your spare time."

"I'm not opening this door until I'm wearing pants," she replied. 'Was that something a man would say?' she wondered to herself.

"Just don't take all day."

Lieutenant Kaladin obviously thought this conversation was more important than uniform requirements, because as she opened the door, the first thing she saw was his chest. His bare chest. It wasn't her fault her commanding officer's well-toned torso was the same height as her eyes. Really, it was his fault for being so tall. And, well, shirtless. That part was definitely his fault. Shallan took a Memory. She was an artist, after all. But then she forced herself to look up at his face.

"Yes, sir?"

"It appears that I have assigned you to the wrong quarters," he explained, "Up until two weeks ago, I was second-in-command of the platoon, so I've been living in the second-in-command quarters. They're identical to these ones except for, apparently, the writing on the doors. So I'd like to remedy that as soon as possible, to avoid any more mix-ups."

"Couldn't they just... paint over the writing and re-do it? It's not like anything is engraved in stone." This whole headache could have been avoided if Shallan would have been able to admit she could read. Or at least, she could have dealt with it some time that wasn't the crack of dawn. And preferably when her commanding officer was wearing his uniform. Or at least a shirt. This was just unprofessional.

"That would be the sensible thing," the lieutenant replied.

'Eyes on his face,' Shallan reminded herself.

"But this is the army," he continued, "So no. Start packing. I'll be back with my things in a few minutes."

Shallan did as she was told, and she started by hiding her extra chest bindings and sketchbook into the bottom of her travel bag. She shoved a few sets of pants on top of them. Then she started gathering up the various personal items she had scattered about the space.

Lieutenant Kaladin returned sooner than expected, bearing a couple boxes, with a bag slung over his shoulder.

"Sorry," said Shallan, "I'm not quite ready yet."

"You've only been here a week," he commented, "How is it possible that you already have this much stuff?"

Shallan looked around the room. She had gone to the market on an afternoon off a few days ago and purchased a desk with a chair, a bed, a wardrobe, and a mirror. Her one indulgence was a rug, because she found it much easier to get out of bed if her feet didn't hit the cold stone floor right away. Plus there were a few interesting shells she'd collected on the journey. She'd been hoping to find a shelf for them, but hadn't seen one she liked.

"What are you talking about? The space isn't even half full, and there's another room besides," she countered as she packed up her washbasin, toothbrush and the shaving kit she had but didn't use.

"What can I carry back with me?" Lieutenant Kaladin asked, "I want this move to be done before breakfast. And we'll need to hurry, given that we're apparently transporting half a palace worth of furnishings."

"How about you give me a hand with the wardrobe?" she suggested.

"Alright."

Shallan blamed the bad morning she was having for the words that came out of her mouth next. Or maybe it was her brain's attempt to stop her from ogling his biceps as he lifted his end of the wardrobe. "So what do I have that you don't? The toothbrush? That would explain a lot."

"If this is how you talk to men who outrank you, it's no wonder they pawned you off on me," he replied acidly.

Really, it was too early to keep her tongue in check. Shallan retorted, "Oh you out-rank me alright. In more ways than one."

"Well at least I don't need an entire caravan to accompany me every time I move."

They arrived in the lieutenant's quarters. His rooms were practically bare. Besides the necessary furniture to store his clothing, weapons and gear, all he had was a literal bedroll.

"Oh I think I've discovered your problem," said Shallan, "You would hate the world a lot less if you didn't sleep on a rock, which is the only known substance harder than your head. What should I carry back?"

"How about the medical kit and uniforms?"

"Don't you want help with the- nevermind." Turns out he could carry his chest of drawers on his own. Of course he could.

"I don't hate the world," he countered, "Just infuriating lighteyes and all your unnecessary frills."

"What, like personal hygiene and common courtesy?"

"You mean vanity and sanctimonious posturing?"

Before Shallan could respond, she saw another soldier gaping at them as he passed by. The reality of what she was doing caught up with her. Chagrinned, she finished the rest of the move in relative silence. The lieutenant must have felt similarly, because he made no move to re-start their argument.