Yep, this is a rebooted the original Fate: Journey. I know, 6 chapters in and I already abandoned my project. I understand if you are upset but I think this is for the best if I want to create a story that is true the characters of both stories.
What really made me want to scrap the story and start a new is that I want to get to the exciting events in Stormlight and get interesting character interactions from the two worlds. Also, I felt like the characters weren't true to themselves and were instead becoming OCs. So, how could I possibly solve this?
Well… just make the Fate stay night world part of the Cosmere. I'm following fate route by the way for obvious reasons.
I'll have to RAFO most of your questions but know that the Cosmere does have a thing called world hopping which allows characters from different worlds to travel to other books.
I'll have the grail system return during the Desolation so more Fate characters can be present. I am welcome to suggestion of who I should have appear.
Right now, Shirou, Artoria, Rin and other Arthurian characters are present.
Ships should be self explanatory except Kaladin's. Honestly that man needs a hug but giving him a relationship kinda goes against his character. So, still unsure unless Brandon releases Stormlight 5.
Hopefully you enjoy this new story!
[A Convergence of Worlds]
The wind howled relentlessly across the desolate landscape, whipping up swirls of dust and sand. Amid the tempest, Shirou found himself standing alone. The memories were still fresh in his mind. Just a second ago he was under that church, surrounded by the bodies of his brothers and sisters. Regret washed over him like a tidal wave. "You idiot," he muttered under his breath. Leaving without his Servant had been his biggest mistake. Lancer's strike should have claimed his life, and yet he found himself standing here, trapped in a desolate wasteland. "Am I in some sort of delusion, or... is this hell?" he pondered aloud.
His gaze fell upon his hand. The Command Seals were gone, and with it, his connection to Saber. The realization struck him like a physical blow. As he stumbled across the rocky terrain, a faint blaring of a horn reached his ears. It was something in this barren landscape, and he sprinted towards it. Climbing up a steep incline, he reached the crest of a mountain and was met with a breathtaking sight.
Before him stretched a vast plain, shattered and cracked. Deep chasms, rifts, and jagged outcroppings crisscrossed the terrain like a spiderweb. Its surface was a patchwork of earthy hues; sun-baked browns blended with rusty reds. Shirou could make out craters that dotted the foot of the mountain he stood on. Each held makeshift structures that were stark against the backdrop of devastation.
With nowhere else to go, Shirou made the trek down the mountain. The rocky terrain proved treacherous, with jagged edges and loose stones threatening to trip him at every turn. Shirou's worn-out sneakers struggled to find purchase on the uneven ground. Despite his weariness, his foot caught on something hard, causing him to trip. He looked back to find a peculiar sight before him—a flower slowly uncurling itself from a hardened shell. It seemed akin to a touch-me-not, but this one possessed a hardened exterior and a seemingly vengeful intent for those who didn't pay attention to where they stepped. Shirou picked himself up, brushing off the dirt that now stained his t-shirt. He knew now that he wasn't in Japan, but he remained undeterred as he continued down the mountain, drawn by the blaring horn and the promise of answers.
The scattered camps came into view. It was strange. No normal tents were erected but rather, blocky stone structures. Not a soul was present, the sound of the horn silent now. The only noise that accompanied him was the whistling of the wind that was slowly growing into a bellow. He turned back to the mountain he was on and beheld a looming wall in the distance. That isn't any regular typhoon! His mind screamed. The winds roared with a ferocity that defied comprehension, as if it was a breath from some deity. It was a colossal mass of churning clouds stretching high into the sky. The wall of the storm even obscured the peaks of the surrounding mountains, swallowing them in a veil of tempestuous fury.
Shirou had brushed with death enough times to understand the danger, his instincts kicking into overdrive. With every fibre of his being, he propelled himself forward, as he made a mad dash towards shelter. Small violet globs began to congregate at his feet as he ran. He didn't ask questions; it didn't slow him down. Reaching the wooden door that faced opposite to the storm, Shirou frantically attempted to open it, it was locked.
"Please, anyone!" he cried out, his voice barely audible over the rapidly approaching storm. The door remained locked, leaving him with no choice but to desperately slam his fist against it. He couldn't die so pointlessly again.
He made out murmurs on the other side which abruptly ceased as a firm voice silenced the commotion. The door swung open to reveal a tall, imposing figure in a green military uniform. "Why are you out?" the soldier yelled over the howling winds. "The Highstorm is almost upon us!"
The new face gave Shirou pause. This was the first person he would speak to after he woke up on a plateu. "I am stranded here." Shirou managed to say.
The soldier's gaze softened slightly. He gestured for Shirou to enter; his voice gruff but tinged with begrudging kindness. "Hurry then, get inside. We can't keep the door open for long."
Shirou stumbled in whilst the soldier closed the door behind him. The interior blocked out the storm leaving only an echo outside. It was dimly lit, with gemstones revealing makeshift beds against the walls and tables taking up the rest of the space. The jewels glowed according to their colour, it reminded him of one of Tohsaka's gems.
"I am Highmarshal Amaram," the soldier said as he strode towards him. "You're lucky to have found us, darkeye."
"Darkeye?" Shirou's brow furrowed in confusion, his gaze sweeping across the stone building and its occupants.
"What nahn are you?" Amaram asked.
Shirou's tried to come up with a response that would make sense to him. "I'm not familiar with your titles and ranks," he admitted. "I come from a different land."
Surprise flickered across Amarams. "Why are you here on the Shattered Plains?"
"Would you believe me if I said I just opened my eyes and found myself here?" Shirou still struggled to comprehend how he had arrived in this foreign land, surrounded by unfamiliar faces.
"I'll be honest boy. We are in the midst of a war. I only just arrived on the plains and trust is a precious commodity here." The people around him looked guarded towards him now. Shirou had the sudden fear of being thrown out until Amaram sighed, "But I can't just kick you out in a Highstorm. Rest and gather your thoughts, we will discuss your situation further."
Shirou nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. He tried to look unassuming as he took a seat on one of the makeshift beds. But, Shirou's mind raced with questions. How did he end up here? What happened to the Holy Grail War? Shirou's attention was drawn to the group of scribes huddled together. They all had shaved heads and grey robes; it was an unsettling sight. They poured over maps and documents, their faces etched with concern as they meticulously recorded every detail, their quills scratching vigoursly against parchment.
'Wait, quills? Who uses quilts when pens exist?'
As he curiously glanced at the scholars' notes, a shadow casted over.
"You said your from a different land," Amaram began, his words punctuated by the distant roar of the storm outside. "Your hair is red like the people in the peaks, are you a Horneater?"
"No, I am Japanese."
Amaram turned to one of his scholars. The bald man shrugged blatantly stating, "I never heard of a group who goes by Japanese."
Shirou waited under their scrutinizing gazes. "If what you say is true," Amaram said. "Then you have unwittingly stumbled upon the sprawling theatre of one of the largest wars in history."
Shirou needed a clearer answer, "Who are you fighting?"
Amaram's features twisted as he spat out the answer. "The Parshendi," he declared, the very name dripping with animosity. "We fight against them for honour, to fulfill the Vengeance Pact. So that our late king Gavilar will be avenged."
The weight of the revelation settled heavily upon Shirou, his mind grappling with the implications. A king dead and a war against a group he didn't recognise.
Amaram's gaze bore into him, "Can you fight, boy?" The words hung in the air, laden with expectation.
Shirou knew he shouldn't antagonise the man, but fuelled by his principles and an unwavering resolve he told the truth. "I can shoot a bow pretty well," he replied resolutely. "But I refuse to take part in bloodshed that has nothing to do with me. I won't be a pawn in a war I have no stake in."
Amaram nodded at his words, a glimmer of respect shining through his stern exterior. However, he persisted. "Is there anything else you can do?"
"I'm a pretty good cook," he pondered aloud. "Perhaps my culinary arts are good enough for a king." His thoughts drifted back to Saber. The tranquil way she enjoyed his food and the smile she wore when they were together. Another spear seemed to hit his heart.
"If you are telling the truth," Amaram said, snapping Shirou out from his thoughts. "Make me something interesting once this storm passes. If it isn't as grand as you say it is, I'll have you strung up for spying on a Highmarshal."
Shirou gulped at the weight of Amaram's expectations. "Very well,"
"Make use of the soulcasted ingredients and anything else that we have imported over."
With that, Amaram turned to join the scholars at the table. Shirou inwardly cursed his situation. Couldn't god at least drop me here with a cookbook?
-x-
-x-
The grand palace stood before Artoria, its towers reaching towards the golden sky. The king's feast was always held outdoors, constructed during their prolonged siege on the Shattered Plains. Six long years of conflict, and the kingdom's ruler, King Elhokar, still possessed a flair for the grandiose. Fueled by the stormlight captured from the recent Highstorm, he commanded his soulcasters to conjure up stone mounds and even redirected a nearby stream to create a lake around them. Artoria sat on a stool, her canvas perched on an easel before her. With a piece of charcoal in her hand, she aimlessly hovered over the blank space. She had always admired the skills of the other women, but she had never been gifted in creation. Her results always ended in crude sketches that even a child would find laughable. Yet, here she was, trying once again to capture the image before her.
The display of excess and arrogance grated on Artoria's sensibilities, but she couldn't let herself be ungrateful. At least part of her wish came true. Her family was alive…maybe the others were somewhere else in this new world. Artoria found her hands shaking, unable to decide where to even start. The spiral began at the centre island that occupied the king. Bridges extended out to more social spaces. Even further out were smaller islands meant to serve as brief respites from the revelry for families. She was currently on one of them whilst her brother was busy philandering about.
Lost in her thoughts, she barely made out the telltale creak. Adolin Kholin, the object of Alethkar's admiration and desires, began crossing the bridge that led to her island. His hair was a fusion of blonde and ebony which was styled in an artful disarray. His blue coat remained unbuttoned, revealing a white undershirt. He looked dashing as always.
"Brightness Artoria," he said, flashing a disarming smile. "May I have the honour of joining you on this splendid island?"
She peered her head beside the canvas, "I would be delighted to have your company." She quickly stood up to approach the dining table, leaving the unfinished render behind her and, more importantly, out of sight.
The table was a sight to behold. It was adorned with fine silverware and an array of delicacies. The centrepiece of the table, a magnificent chunk of Chasmfiend meat, stood tall with a golden-brown crust.
"You haven't touched any of the food," he stated absently, slicing off a piece of the meat.
"I'm not particularly hungry."
"Come now, have a taste of the Chasmfiend. You know, I managed to strike the finishing blow on him." He sat back in his chair, recalling the event. "The beast was massive, maybe as tall as the palace... Its length is definitely more than double it."
Artoria shook her head. "Is it fun to surround a mindless beast with Shardbearers?"
"Not particularly. Regardless of a beasts size, it culminates to mere butchery in the end." Adolin took another bite of the meat. "Now, dueling, that is exciting. The feel of the Shardblade in your hand, facing someone crafty, skilled, and careful. Man against man, strength against strength, mind against mind. Hunting some dumb beast just couldn't compare to that."
Artoria felt her heart flutter at his words. "You have a way of making duels sound truly captivating, Adolin," she carefully said. "Perhaps one day, fortune will grant me the privilege of witnessing it firsthand."
"Maybe you could watch me fight in the arena," Adolin said, shifting closer to her. "I am considered the best duelist in our country."
A sudden cough interrupted their conversation. A noblewoman, draped in an intricate yellow gown adorned with gemstones, managed to make her way to their island whilst they were distracted. She radiated with the glow of stormlight, and fury. The spren associated with the emotion boiled up from the ground around her like small pools of bubbling blood. "Adolin Kholin," she seethed.
He rose from his seat, "Janala, my dear, how are you this fine night?"
"I was waiting for you," she hissed. "Outside, by myself, in the cold!"
"Storms, that was today?"
"That was today!" She said incredulously. "I reminded you at sunrise!"
"Look, I'm sorry. I was quite busy, you know…with the hunt."
Janala turned her stare towards Artoria. She seemed to scrutinize every detail of her, her eyes darting from her golden hair to her simple white dress that clung to her figure. She slowly clenched her hands into fists. "You seem to have enough time to court this woman."
"Bah. I am not courting Artoria." She is a friend, I was just—"
Before Adolin could even finish his excuse, Janala threw her weight into him, propelling him backward into the depths of the nearby lake. A resounding splash was heard by all, momentarily freezing the festivity. Artoria's eyes followed Janala's retreating figure.
"The nerve of that man," Janala muttered through quivering lips, her voice barely audible.
Adolin emerged from the lake, the cold water sending shivers through his body. Artoria knelt beside him, her hand extended. He took it, a smile returning to his face. "I swear, it's almost like you're sabotaging your own relationships," she joked.
"It's not my fault they all have possessiveness issue. I don't blame them though, seeing as I prefer the company of a far more captivating lady."
Artoria's cheeks flushed at the compliment. She quickly averted her gaze, pretending to adjust the delicate flowers adorning the table. "I assure you, Adolin, I didn't have the intention of causing trouble,"
Adolin shrugged, still grinning. "No harm done," he said. "If anything, you made the evening more interesting."
As they spoke, the festivities seemed to have been brought to a standstill. Artoria didn't notice until he saw Adolin looking past her. Approaching them was a figure that parted the crowd with his presence alone. He bore the marks of age, yet his bearing was unyielding and unshakeable, displaying every inch the warrior he was. Dalinar Kholin soon loomed before them, his blue military coat with golden embellishments serving as a reminder of his authority.
"What is the meaning of this?" Dalinar asked, his voice low and stern.
Adolin shifted nervously, his wet clothes clinging to his skin. "There's been a misunderstanding," he began. "Janala misinterpreted my conversation with Brightness Artoria. I assure you, there was no impropriety."
Dalinar's expression softened slightly, but only slightly. "You will apologize to her," he said firmly.
Adolin's eyes widened. "Father—".
"I've had enough of your games," Dalinar said, his voice growing louder. "As long as you are a Kholin, you will follow The Codes. It's the bare minimum I ask."
Artoria watched the exchange, her heart pounding in her chest. Adolin held his ground for a moment, but then he turned and walked away, his head held high as he chased after the women he insulted. The silence hung heavy in the air.
"Brightness Artoria," he finally said. "I apologise for the interruption. If you'd like some company, let me invite you to the king's island."
Artoria met his gaze, her eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. She knew that the king's table was reserved for the highest-ranking nobles, and her family was not among them. But still, she couldn't resist the opportunity. "Then, I'll accept your invitation."
-x-
-x-
As they crossed the islands, Artoria and Dalinar weaved their way through throngs of drunken revelers. The air was thick with the heady scent of violet wine, the most intoxicating type of beverage. As these people spun and stumbled, she couldn't help but think that these were the people that was supposed to lead men into war. As Artoria observed this, her mind wandered back to Dalinar.
"There has been talk about you," Artoria finally said.
"There has, and there will continue to be."
Both the music and the hum of conversation on the dining island were loud enough to keep people from overhearing them. Artoria decided it was the best time to ask. "So, is it true? Are you really thinking of abandoning the Vengeance Pact?"
"That was supposed to be between me and the king," he replied through gritted teeth.
"Rumours spread quickly," Artoria pressed on. "The nobility don't only think you a coward—"
"They think me mad," Dalinar cut in, his voice hard.
As they approached the bridge to the final island, the tension in the air grew thicker. Pole-mounted gem lamps ringed it, glowing blue, and a firepit dominated the center of the platform. Deep red coals simmered in its bowels, radiating warmth. King Elhokar sat at his table just behind the firepit, surrounded by several Highprinces. Adjacent to him sat tables for the minor nobility that managed to gain an audience with the young king.
Dalinar paused before gesturing to a group of women. They had set up several easels on the island, showing off their sketching, painting, and calligraphy skills. They were competing against each other. The grail may have provided her knowledge to write but what was left of her pride prevented her from joining.
"Is it possible for me to sit with you at the king's table?" she asked. "I didn't have the pleasure of trying the delicacies this evening."
"I don't plan on sitting." Dalinar whispered, his eyes fixed on the king and his fellow princes at the table.
Artoria raised an eyebrow. "What's going on?"
"After what you told me, I can't have the others think me weak any longer,"
She could only nod at the intensity of his words. Artoria stood aside with the lesser lighteyes, watching as Dalinar walked towards the centre of the island. He stopped by the blazing fire, drawing the attention of the young king. "Ah, Uncle. It seems you've resolved the situation quite promptly," Elhokar said, his voice cool and detached. He had a boyish face and the customary dark hair and tan skin of the Alethi people. Why did the grail not save my people? Artoria thought. Her wish was much broader than she planned it being. She wanted to save more than just the people of Britain, and it resulted in this. She had failed again.
The highprinces were glancing at Dalinar with suspicion. They had always seen him as a relic of a bygone era, a man who clung to the old ways while the rest of them moved on. And now, with rumours of his possible defection from the Vengeance Pact, they saw him as a liability, a threat to their plans for conquest.
"I have something to say," Dalinar announced, his voice carrying over the din of the revelry. The entire island fell silent as all eyes turned to him.
But before he could continue, a brawny man next to Elhokar burst into laughter. "Has the Almighty come to you again in one of your drunken stupors?"
The brute wore a silk shirt with ruffled cuffswhile. Dalinar remained unfazed as he stood tall and proud. "I don't drink anymore, Ruthar. And my vision was quite clear. Clear enough to see that we need to work together to win this war," he retorted.
Ruthar snorted. "And what makes you think we would ever follow your lead?"
"Because I'm the only one here who's won a war."
The Ruthar's face turned red. "You dare insult me, old man?"
"I'm not insulting you," Dalinar said, his voice measured. "I'm simply stating a fact."
Artoria watched as the highprinces exchanged uneasy glances. Dalinar had struck a nerve. They had all knelt to Gavilar, but who did they really fear?
"I'm ending these games now," Dalinar announced. "We will win this war by charging into the heart of the Shattered Plains. If we can kill a large enough number of them, we destroy their capacity to wage war. The Vengeance Pact would be fulfilled, and we can finally secure stability in our kingdom."
The other princes seemed to be gauging the situation. Ruthar on the other-hand was young and hotheaded. "Impossible," he countered. "The Parshendi are too mobile on the plains—their soldiers can leap over the widest of chasm. Our armies will be surrounded one by one,"
"What if all ten armies went together? Side by side, over a hundred and fifty thousand troops marching together?"
"I'm afraid that's not possible, Dalinar." All eyes turned to Sadeas. The bulbous man was infamous for being a shrewd politician; he was not one to give up his power easily.
"And why is that?" Dalinar asked.
"Because, old friend, who will lead this army?"
"A Highprince of War," Dalinar declared, his words hanging heavy in the air. The others kept measured faces yet from the sidelines, Artoria could see them tense.
"What a brilliant idea!" King Elhokar said, beaming with excitement. "Returning the old titles should bring us a step closer to our kingdom's former glory. Imagine a united Alethkar, just like how my father envisioned it."
Artoria ruminated on this king's enthusiasm. Did Dalinar plan this? If he and the king were working together, it would explain why he was so welcoming to the idea. But, what king would willingly give up his army?
Arotria knew the answer to that. None. This king was blinded by his lack of knowledge and an inferiority complex. Dalinar was proposing unity, but in a way that would give him all the power. She should have been terrified like the rest of them, but Artoria couldn't help but admire this man. He had to be her true replacement. If anyone could turn this kingdom into something to envy, it was Dalinar Kholin.
-x-
-x-
In the early morning light, the war camp was alive with frenzied activity. The clanging of metal and the thud of hooves echoed through the air. Shirou worked alongside the other cooks to prepare breakfast. The makeshift kitchen was crowded and cramped, with pots boiling over and food spilling onto the dirt floor.
Despite the chaos, they managed to finish the meal in time. It was a bland, unappetising concoction of gruel and stale bread, but it was enough to sustain the soldiers. As he surveyed the meagre spread, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment. Amaram's praise of the stir fry he made after the Highstorm had culminated in a job that reduced his arts to barebone meals.
When it was finally done, Shirou slumped onto a nearby rock grateful for the reprieve. Soldiers lined up by the pavilion, holding bowls as they were served. Shirou brought his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his brow. It was a cold morning, but he had been working none stop since the break of dawn. That was when he spotted the three moons hanging in the sky. He was definitely not on Earth.
As he tried to soothe the headache that was overcoming him, he witnessed someone dragging a man out from a particular set of low-ceiling barracks. He was being pulled by his collar as he limped out into the light. The aggressor was taller and unkempt, his dark hair and beard uneven, like he didn't care what people thought of him. Although, all these 'bridgemen' had to live with a sort of dirtiness on them, their brown vests and sandals were all worn out and even ripped in some places.
He tossed the dead weight onto the hard earth and declared, "Things are going to change in Bridge Four." Shirou couldn't help but feel curious about what he was saying. The small group that followed him looked with bloody murder at him. That didn't stop this fiery man. "I know what you're thinking, aren't our lives hard enough? Shouldn't we be able to relax during the brief times we have for it?"
"Yeah," someone in the crowd grumbled.
"No," the leader snapped. "Bridge runs exhaust us because we spend most of our days lounging. The work we do, foraging in the chasms, cleaning latrines, scrubbing floors, it's all just to keep us busy. The soldiers don't expect us to work hard; they simply want to ignore us." The weight of his words hung in the air, "As your bridgeleader, my primary duty is to keep you alive. There's not much I can do about the Parshendi arrows, so I have to do something about you. I have to make you stronger, so that when you charge that last leg of a bridge run—arrows flying—you can run quickly." The leader's eyes locked onto each man in the line, "I intend to see that Bridge Four never loses another man."
The rag-tag group stood in astonishment. But the bridgeleader's efforts all unraveled in an instant. A hefty, thick-limbed giant at the back burst into laughter. He had tan skin and red hair much like his own, yet he towered above everyone in camp. "Crazy! Is a crazy man who now thinks to lead us!" the man boomed, his laughter echoing through the air. His words ignited murmurs among the crowd.
In response, the beaten man stood back up on his feet, mustering the courage to face his aggressor. "Looks like you can storm off lordling. Unless you're going to beat us all into submission." He gave the bridgeleader a sly grin as he was backed by his peers.
With that final blow, the group began to disperse. Some retreated to the barracks, seeking refuge in their bunks. Others trudged toward the mess halls, their hunger outweighing their lethargy. Amidst the dwindling crowd, the bridgeleader stood alone his breath forming a misty cloud before him.
Observing the scene, Shirou couldn't help but be drawn toward the dejected man. "That didn't work out too well," he called out, approaching the open ground.
The man turned his gaze toward Shirou, his eyes cold. He quickly adjusted his back straighter and held his arms higher as if he was prepared to switch to a fighting stance at any moment. "What do you want?" he asked sharply.
Undeterred, Shirou introduced himself. "My name is Shirou Emiya. What's yours?"
The man replied with a single word, "Kaladin,"
"I saw you trying to bring the bridgemen together," Shirou said, trying to keep the conversation going.
"It didn't work," Kaladin replied, the bitterness creeping further into his voice. "The men in the army…they had worse places to go. You could punish them. These bridgemen, however, have hit rock bottom."
"And what about you?" Shirou asked.
Kaladin's eyes narrowed. "What about me?"
His demeanour changed completely, his muscles tensing. And that burning glare, it bore holes in him. Shirou hesitated, feeling as if he too was about to receive a beating. "I'm sorry," he said, backing away slowly. "I didn't mean to offend you."
Kaladin snorted, turning away from Shirou. "You didn't offend me," he said. "You just don't understand." With that, he began to walk away.
But Shirou wasn't ready to give up just yet. "I know you're a good person, Kaladin," he called after him. "Why else would you try so hard to train them?"
He froze in place at hearing those words. "I do want to help them." He managed to say, his voice barely carrying through the wind. "But I always find myself in losing battles."
Shirou understood him now. This bridgeleader didn't view himself as a bridgeman, but a protector of a group who couldn't care less about themselves. He didn't have any business doing such a thing—he tried anyways. Before Shirou knew what he was thinking, the words formed, "Maybe I can help?"
Kaladin turned slowly, his features a mix of emotions. "You. Help us. Why?"
Shirou shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it's because I'm a stranger in a strange land, or I feel like I can relate to your situation. Or maybe it's just because it's the right thing to do. Either way, I want to help."
The silence hung heavy in the air as Kaladin considered Shirou's words. Finally, his shoulders relaxed, and a smile spread across his face. "Well, I could use all the help I can get," he said warmly. "Welcome to the bridge crew."
Shirou's own smile faltered. "Wait, what? I didn't sign up for that!"
Kaladin snickered to himself, the sound ringing out across the rocky landscape. "You're an idiot," he said, his voice laced with derision. "Isn't that what you just implied?"
Shirou's mouth dropped open. "What? No, I can't do that. I don't even know how to carry a bridge."
"Then you'll have to learn fast, won't you?" Kaladin said. "Or are you done with your whole hero façade?"
With that, the bridgeleader turned and stormed away, leaving him the final person standing there outside the barracks. At a complete loss for words.
-x-
-x-
Kaladin was stalking someone. A feeble man with an eyepatch around his scared face. He needed a word with his 'superior'. In the alleyway between two barracks, he found the figure crouching in the shadows, watching in the other direction for him. He grabbed his shoulder causing him to yelp. He spun and took a swing at Kaladin. He caught the fist easily.
Gaz looked up at him with horror. "I wasn't going to lie! Storm you, you don't have authority anywhere other than on the field. If you hurt me again, I'll have you—"
"Calm yourself, Gaz," Kaladin said, releasing the man. "I'm not going to hurt you. Not yet, at least." The shorter man backed away, rubbing his shoulder and glaring at Kaladin. "Today's third pass," Kaladin said. "Payday."
Gaz counted out four marks. He handed them to Kaladin, but Kaladin left his hand open, palm forward. "The other one, Gaz."
"You said—"
"Now." Gaz jumped, then pulled out a sphere.
"You have a strange way of keeping your word, lordling. You promised me…" He trailed off as Kaladin took the sphere he'd just been given and handed it back. Gaz frowned at the display.
"Don't forget where this comes from, Gaz. I'll keep to my word, but you aren't keeping part of my pay. I'm giving it to you. Understand?" Gaz looked confused, though he did snatch the sphere from Kaladin's hand.
"The money stops coming if something happens to me," Kaladin said, tucking the other four spheres into his pocket. "Remember our bargain. Stay out of my way."
With that, he made his way back to bridge four's barracks. As he left the pathetic man behind, Gaz finally pulled one act of defiance. "You don't have authority," he called. "You're not some squadleader on the field. You're a storming bridgeman. You hear me? You can't have authority without a rank!"
Kaladin left the alleyway behind. "Gaz is wrong," he said under his breath. A tiny ribbon of light zipped towards him, taking the form of a young women. She walked around this head to hang in front of his face, hovering there while he moved. She cocked her head at him. "Authority doesn't come from a rank,"
"Where does it come from?" Syl asked, with her childlike sense of innocence.
"From the men who give it to you."
Syl nodded but she still looked perplexed. "Kaladin, why were you so mean to that man?"
"You talking about Gaz?"
"No, the other one." Kaladin was too tired to do this again with Syl, he needed to think of a way to bring hope back to his men. He continued walking but Syl raised a hand up. She pouted at him, it was the first time he saw that expression on her.
"What is it? Are you angry that I beat up Moash?"
She shook her head vigorously. "NO, the other, other one."
"Wait, don't tell me you're referring to that boy."
"Yes, that's the one I'm talking about!" Syl said, her tone growing more insistent. "The one with the red hair. You should show him more respect."
Kaladin looked at Syl with his customary scowl. "I don't need to take advice from a talking spren. You don't understand how things work in the real world."
Syl fixed a steely gaze at him. "I'm not just some talking spren. I've seen how humans treat each other, and I know when someone is being unfair."
Kaladin felt a flicker of annoyance rise in his chest. "You have no right to judge me."
Syl's expression softened, "I'm not judging you, Kaladin. I just want you to be kind. Is that not what you want?"
Kaladin looked away from her, feeling a pang of guilt. "If I get the chance," he muttered "I'll try,"
Syl smiled at him, relieved. "Thank you, Kaladin. I knew you would do the right thing."
He wasn't able to respond to her. A horn blared from one of the watch tower sending a shiver down his spine. This one was deeper than the one that signified a Highstorm. It alerted the camp that a gemheart had been located. The soldiers would need to prepare for battle, and Kaladin's bridgemen would be called upon to do their duty once again. As he dashed towards the barracks, he couldn't shake the feeling of dread that settled in his gut. How many more runs would he have to do, how many more lives would he fail to save? Kaladin didn't know the answer...that didn't matter.
He made a promise to Syl. He made a promise to his men. He made a promise to himself. He wouldn't give up.