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It was something Shallan had wanted to do, to take them and strip them down and study them like one of her scholarly pursuits. Adolin had been on board immediately, not just because of the pride he had in his body, but because he understood Shallan. Understood the desire to understand her partners, to map their bodies completely. He felt the same way. Only Kaladin hadn't been quite so comfortable about about it, constantly stating that he wasn’t ready yet.
Now, three months after the three of them began quietly courting, he finally agreed.
It was strange seeing Kaladin this awkward, carefully undoing the buttons on his shirt and averting his eyes from where Adolin had already confidently stripped, wearing nothing but a loincloth at Kaladin’s request. Shallan, too, was stripping herself bare, and if Adolin’s loincloth made Kaladin look away, Shallan’s free safe hand certainly made him blush. Finally, he pulled off his top and pants, feeling self conscious. It’s not like he’s never been naked in front of people before - as a slave and later a bridgeman, he didn’t exactly get much in the way of privacy. But it had never been like this before, with the pure intention of allowing someone to map his body. The pure intimacy of the action.
Shallan was the first one to move, cautiously tracing a small scar on Adolin’s side.
“Didn’t quite get out of the way of a sword in time. Luckily, it was just a graze.”
Carefully, the young woman’s fingers traced Adolin’s skin, following muscle up to his chest, tracing battle scars as she found them, taking a memory of each imperfection. Finally, her hand came up to his gold speckled hair, carefully tucking it behind his ear.
Apart from explanations of past battle scars as she came across them, they held a reverent silence between them throughout the entire process. Kaladin was almost afraid his breathing would break the moment, taking away all the magic.
She turned to him, ready to repeat the process, and he felt himself tense.
“If you’re not ready, we can do this later,” Adolin said. “We don’t want to rush you into something you don’t feel comfortable with.”
“No. No, I’m ready.”
Shallan stepped forwards, reaching out her hand for the first scar, a large gash that ran nearly the full length of his stomach. Without meaning to he flinched away.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “I just—"
“It’s okay.”
“Two days after I was made a slave, I got this. I’d tried to explain what had happened, tell them that Amaram had killed my men. They believed I was lying and beat me. The wound was made when one of the men grabbed the poker from the fire.”
Shallan maintained a brave face, but Adolin couldn’t help but wince. Carefully, more carefully than with Adolin, like he was so much more breakable, she continued, running her fingers around to his back and finding a knot of criss crossing scars. Whippings, many carried out by the looks of them.
“Stormfather, Kaladin.”
The man didn’t respond, just bowed his head. Only when Shallan stopped her tracing did he look up.
“Why did you stop?”
“You seemed upset.”
“According to you two, I never look pleased, so I don’t see the issue.”
“Well, I didn’t think that it was possible for you to look worse that your baseline gloomy, so such a deviation was cause for concern.”
He sighed, shaking his head and taking her hand, gently laying it on a scar on his shoulder. She continued, moving up his neck where multiple small scars stood.
“One of my owners used to collar us, attaching us to a leash and tying us up if he didn’t think we were behaving properly. That was the third place I tried to escape from - the big one was from where I slipped trying to cut the thing off me.”
Adolin looked murderous, knuckles white on his clenched fists.
“I don’t know how you managed to restrain yourself from murdering Amaram on the spot when he appeared in the camp.”
“Knowing I’d be hauled away in chains, back to the life I’d just escaped, was my primary motivation. The fact that nobody would take a darkeyes word over a lighteyes didn’t help my case.”
A flash of guilt passed over Adolin’s face - he knew that neither of his partners truly comprehended what it was to be darkeyed, all the shit that comes along as a result. The fact that he had to always be aware, to know that every action he made would be reflected on every darkeyed person. What it felt like to not even be able to challenge the man who branded you a slave, who caused you to be beaten and dehumanised until all you wanted was for it to end. Even as Shallan’s fingers traced his scars, he doubted she could ever truly comprehend what it was like to be beaten to the edge of your life and be willing to just give up, end it there, but be yanked back by surgeons. Men with the profession he would have had if Rosehone hadn’t had power, if he had been a of a family of lighteyes above his influence. Still they tried, even if they could never understand what it was like.
Shallan’s fingers eventually finished their journey, winding up at the brands on his forehead.
“You’re beautiful,” she told him, honestly, no ‘still’ or ‘but’ or ‘if only’ hanging there unsaid. “The two of you are the most beautiful men I have ever met.”
Adolin smiled in agreement, although Kaladin still looked unsure, fingers running up the scar on his stomach. He’d never considered himself a vain man, but the reminders of his history that clung to his skin - it wasn’t that he wanted to forget. He couldn’t let himself. But sometimes he wanted his body to not be theirs. The lighteyed men who have held him down all his life, their oppression etched into his skin.
“I have an idea. You should go lie down on the bed.”
“Shallan, you know Kaladin’s boundaries.”
The redheaded woman rolled her eyes as she moved towards her trunk, taking out her coloured ink and brushes - the ones that didn’t get used except on special occasions. Adolin silenced in understanding.
Carefully, so carefully, she began to paint over the scar on his stomach, brush working on it's own as it creates solid outlines, occasionally switching to colour and highlight the creation. Slowly it grows, covering his entire torso in an intricate set of glyphs and animals.
“What are those meant to be?” Adolin asked, frowning.
“Birds, they’re called. Native to the Shin homeland. Apparently they soar through the skies and sing. I thought they were suitable.”
“I dunno,” Adolin replied. “I can’t imagine Kaladin singing.”
Kaladin scowled his regular scowl. “I haven’t exactly had much reason or time for singing,” he retorted.
“Stop moving, I’m trying to work here!”
Careful feathers danced up his neck, covering the scars. As she reached his clean shaven chin, she stopped.
“Do you want me to cover the brands?”
Kaladin hesitated. They were part of him, a reminder,
A reminder that you were once a lighteye’s property, he thought, and nodded.
The brush tickled more as it painted his head than it did his body. He had absolutely no clue what she was drawing there, but Adolin was smiling. He had to resist the urge to touch his forehead, smearing the drying paint on his skin as well as the one on his forehead.
“Can you do me next?”
“What, you’re don’t think you’re enough of a work of art already?” Kaladin asked.
“Even perfection can be honed, Kaladin. Even perfection.”
With a final stroke of her brush, Shallan finished the work of art on his forehead.
“Done. I can paint you, Adolin, while we wait for the paint to dry on Kaladin’s front before I move onto the back.”
It took her less time to paint Adolin, with less scars to cover. Instead of Kaladin’s bird motifs, she drew out horses and sword techniques she’d read. His side was covered by a man standing in windstance, poised and ready to fights. His chest was the image of his own horse, bigger and grander than most. Adolin was worse at staying still than Kaladin, every now and then letting out a small giggle or twitching as her brush made a particularly sensitive stroke.
“Stormfather, you’re frustrating sometimes,” Shallan groaned as she tried to draw the horse’s mane, Adolin giggling as the brush tickled him.
“Only sometimes?” Kaladin asked, eyebrow raised.
“Most of the time,” she amended, as Adolin let out an offended huff that was swallowed by a new bout of giggles.
“It’s…your own fault,” he managed to gasp out. “If you weren’t so light with…that brush, or if…Kaladin wasn’t so grumpy all the time, I wouldn’t have to….be so frustrating.”
“I’m not grumpy all the time!”
“Yeah, I know. Sometimes you’re mopey.”
“Well, having to babysit you and a your family is enough to kill anyone’s mood.”
“We’re not children needing to be protected!”
“Oh yea? Who had to save your arse in that arena?”
“Who had to screw up our chances of taking down Sadaes fairly in a way he couldn’t refuse?”
Kaladin flinched, and Adolin realised he went to far. Usually it was Shallan that overstepped boundaries while teasing.
“That was a low blow, sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Kaladin replied, but Adolin knew it wasn’t. Now the former bridgeman would be musing on Amaram and captivity for the rest of the evening.
“Done. The paint should be dry enough for you to roll over so I can do your back,” Shallan told Kaladin, speaking lightly to break the tension. Kaladin just took it as an excuse to curl into a ball.
“I don’t feel like covering the scars on my back.”
“Do you at least want to see the ones on your front?”
With a sigh, he nodded, uncurling and allowing Shallan to guide him over to the mirror she had.
He had to stare at himself.
The birds twisted over his torso, colourful and lively despite being made of paint. Carefully he read the glyphs Shallan had written - hope, love, freedom, repeated over and over throughout the pattern. Carefully, he lifted up his hair and stared.
A final bird sat there, wings spread in flight, face set and fierce. As he watched, Shallan breathed in stormlight, and the drawings began to move, birds swooping and flying. Kaladin watched in awe, a small smile creeping onto his face.
“And here I was thinking you didn’t know how to smile.”
“Shallan, these are beautiful. Thank you.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to paint your back?”
Kaladin paused. “No, I want it. Paint my back.”
He was soon lying down, brush flicking across his back.
“You know, you’re probably powerful enough now that nobody could hold you again - lighteded or not,” Adolin pointed out. Kaladin just shrugged.
“They could still trap me with politics. Or take me away from stormlight.” The thought left him terrified, and on instinct he sucked some into his body. Even if Syl wasn’t with him right now - she and Pattern seemed to keep each other amused when Shallan, Adolin and Kaladin wanted moments for themselves - he could feel the power their bond granted him. It reminded him that this was good - he was fine, not sliding back to become the wretch. Even when he did have those moments, Adolin and Shallan were there to keep him on track, make sure he didn’t stray too far from his destiny.
“We wouldn’t let that happen. No matter what, we look out for each other.”
Kaladin nodded. They each lacked something the others had - Adolin the privilege of being a Radiant, Kaladin the privilege of being lighteyed, and Shallan the certain benefits afforded to being male. Between them, they had all bases covered.
“There. Done.”
Kaldin could feel the wet paint over the ropy scars, knowing the art would be as stunning as that on his front. She instructed Adolin to turn over, once more only covering the small amount of scars on the man’s back. Finally, her two works of art were finished. Kaladin watched her, knowing she was taking a memory of the two of them.
“You truly are amazing, Shallan,” Adolin told her as he stood before the mirror.
“I agree. I still don’t know what I did to deserve you two,” Kaladin said softly.
“Well, the whole saving my life thing tends to work wonders,” Shallan replied.
“I agree. The flying doesn’t hurt your case, either.”
Shallan laughed, and Kaladin found himself smiling. Two times in one day - if he didn't watch himself, this would become a habit.
“Still, thank you both.”
There was a comfortable silence, before Shallan flopped down on the bed next to him, kissing his unpainted cheek.
“Hey, move over. Leave some room for me.”
The bed was probably not made for three people, but Shallan, Kaladin and Adolin could deal with being a bit squashed.
“If you ever want me to do something like this again, just say so.”
Kaladin nodded.
“Thank you.”
Maybe she didn’t know how much it meant to him that for just one evening he could feel like his skin was a work of art and not a patchwork of pain. It didn’t matter. He loved it none the less.