( "they kill us on the bridge," silco seethes, and kaladin's eyes widen.
memories sever his ability to breathe. memories of people using him for profit, supporting them and their comfortable lifestyles. trying to fight back only to be forced onto the plains daily to die, carrying their bridge. memories of comrades fallen, their bodies pierced by arrows. old and young men, some only boys, like tien. memories of tien's cold corpse warmed in futility by his own. they string together in a chain whose links have locked tight around him, only growing longer each passing week. so many more than he can bear.
yet silco can bear a length of his own and, despite being weighed down by it, stand tall. it's his revenge to keep existing, an ever-present death rattle for anyone who would try to force him back to the mines, the bridge, the river. they're brandished as a weapon somehow, lifted and lashed at everyone who gets near.
by the time silco's through, kaladin's breaths have become short and noisy, suffering a mild panic. his eyes are wet without tears, glassy, and they remain wide, distant as though seeing into his past through the veil between roshar and earth. )
I want to... ( he trails off into silence.
then blinks. sucking in sharply, kaladin refuses his lung's further sips of air, refocusing on the conversation with a rapid search of silco's face. )
You told me you didn't have any powers, Silco. But being able to carry on... That is power. Everything else is a placebo. ( when his flash and fancy is stripped away, what's left of him? kaladin is a worn spear wielded in the dark. ) Flight, weapon summoning, using Stormlight... I can win a fight against a beast or a man with a bigger stick, but I've never been able to do what you do.
Hate as a compass... I've tried. I failed. I can't do it. I won't. I'm... ( scared. )
no subject
memories sever his ability to breathe. memories of people using him for profit, supporting them and their comfortable lifestyles. trying to fight back only to be forced onto the plains daily to die, carrying their bridge. memories of comrades fallen, their bodies pierced by arrows. old and young men, some only boys, like tien. memories of tien's cold corpse warmed in futility by his own. they string together in a chain whose links have locked tight around him, only growing longer each passing week. so many more than he can bear.
yet silco can bear a length of his own and, despite being weighed down by it, stand tall. it's his revenge to keep existing, an ever-present death rattle for anyone who would try to force him back to the mines, the bridge, the river. they're brandished as a weapon somehow, lifted and lashed at everyone who gets near.
by the time silco's through, kaladin's breaths have become short and noisy, suffering a mild panic. his eyes are wet without tears, glassy, and they remain wide, distant as though seeing into his past through the veil between roshar and earth. )
I want to... ( he trails off into silence.
then blinks. sucking in sharply, kaladin refuses his lung's further sips of air, refocusing on the conversation with a rapid search of silco's face. )
You told me you didn't have any powers, Silco. But being able to carry on... That is power. Everything else is a placebo. ( when his flash and fancy is stripped away, what's left of him? kaladin is a worn spear wielded in the dark. ) Flight, weapon summoning, using Stormlight... I can win a fight against a beast or a man with a bigger stick, but I've never been able to do what you do.
Hate as a compass... I've tried. I failed. I can't do it. I won't. I'm... ( scared. )