Everything seemed....still. There wasn't a sound in the air, not a rustle in the soft grass upon which he tread. Even his steps were muffled, making them seem distant and foreign. He could almost imagine that he was drifting, gliding across the darkened meadow carelessly, his mind free of mortal chains. It was a lovely night, he remarked, one that almost allowed him to gleam his past magnificence. The sky was dusted with stars, a white streak of some starway weaving across its indigo expanse. The wind carried the smell of lilac trees, the white kind he'd seen blooming near the edges of the forest that encircled the Dawn Court's pride and joy - the meadow. They even named it, he thought glumly. It's not just a meadow, it's the illuster meadow. He glanced about, amberglass eyes taking in the disconcertingly still expanse of forestry and huddled wildflowers, closed up for the night into tight buds. Kaldin shook his head, mane falling over his eyes. He did not make a move to brush it away. What good does it do to name a piece of grass?
These trivial matters were beyond him. He’d been doing his best to escape humanity since it had removed its mask of gossamer hope to glare him in the face with trials and falsehoods. Instead of facing it head-on, he’d ducked his head and immersed himself in a craft that he’d always been captivated by – that of potions and the intricacies of the equine body. They called him a Caretaker – “I prefer Bonebreaker, or perhaps Lifesaver,” he’d wanted to say. “Something more grandiose.” And yet, the name Caretaker had stuck – it made him sound like some small child who looked after smaller children, foolishly wandering after the useless youths until he’d gone hoarse with calling their names.
With a start, he realized he was unnerved. He paused in his brooding trek, lifting his drooping head to eye his silent surroundings. It took him a moment to pinpoint the source of his shaking – yes, he was quivering, it seemed his body did that now. Without the daily chirp of birds or the bustling sounds of the herd, he was reminded of his time spent in the cavern, of the reticent stone faces and endless nights, trapped in a tomb of his father’s making, deep beneath the earth. His mind wandered to the collar about his neck, and his gave it a tug. It held, stubborn as always, a patent reminder of his blunders.
”Soon,” he whispered, out loud, in hopes of breaking the silence. He’d heard the rumors, as they all had. Of a relic, some godly item strewn about the land thoughtlessly by one of their inconsiderate gods. Kaladin would never have been so careless. But I am no god, he remembered. He set back into his march, eyes set stubbornly on the horizon. Yet,he added. This was the first gleam of hope he’d received since his fall. If this godly item was as potent as they said, whatever power it contained might be enough to break the cursed collar and free him of this disgusting body once more.
His amber eyes gleamed in the darkness, lit like lanterns by the idea of gods and monsters. Leaving mortality behind. Once again, he allowed himself to feel like he was gliding, his hoofsteps becoming muffled until he thought they might be the heartbeats of the earth itself, egging him onwards for its own redemption.
