POV: dalinar
Summary
Seven years before the present, Dalinar tears apart his rooms at a fort on the eastern rim of Alethkar — the first mark of civilisation on the brothers' march back from the wilderness — searching for the bottles his household has taken from him. He sweeps the dresser bare, upends a bowl of hot soup, dumps drawers, and finally heaves over his trunk; a single flask rolls out among the spilled clothing. He slurps the dregs and groans. The weeping echoes in his head: dying children, Evi begging for her life. He needs more.
He half-wonders, briefly, whether the hunt is today and whether he must be presentable. No. The hunt was weeks ago — the one he convinced Gavilar to take with him, where for a stretch out in the wild he had been Dalinar Kholin again: sober, commanding, a figure right out of the storming songs. They had discovered those parshmen on that trip. He had felt like his old self.
He hated that person.
A rap at the door — his two sons standing there, drawn by the commotion. Angerspren boil up around him. Her hair. Her judgemental eyes. What has she stuffed into their heads about him? *What?* he roars. Adolin, almost seventeen now and fully a man, jutts out his chin and tries to stand his ground — *we heard the commotion, sir, we thought you might need help.* The other, the invalid — Renarin, twelve or thirteen, looking younger — cringes behind. *I need nothing! Out! GET OUT!* They scramble away.
Alone, Dalinar slams the wardrobe shut and pounds his fists on the bedside table until the sphere lamp topples; then he falls to his knees. They are only a few days' march from the ruins of Rathalas. Perhaps that is why the screaming in his head is louder today.
A hand lands on his shoulder. He turns to bark again at Adolin — but it is not Adolin. Renarin has come back alone, spectacled eyes wide, hand trembling, and he holds something out. *I got you one,* the boy says, *with the spheres the king gave me. Because you always go through what you buy so quickly.* It is a small bottle of wine.
Dalinar stares at it. *Gavilar hides the wine from me. That's why none is left. I … couldn't possibly … have drunk it all …* Renarin steps in and hugs him. Dalinar flinches as if bracing for a punch. The boy will not let go. *They talk about you, but they're wrong. You just need to rest, after all the fighting you did. I know. And I miss her too.*
Dalinar asks him what his mother said about him. Renarin recites it like a creed: *the only honest officer in the army, the honourable soldier, noble as the Heralds themselves, our father, the greatest man in Alethkar.* Stupid words — and Dalinar finds himself weeping. He grabs the boy and pulls him close. *Oh, Almighty. Oh God. Oh God, please … I've started to hate my sons. Why hadn't the boys learned to hate him back? They should hate him. He deserved to be hated.* He pleads, soundlessly: *anything, I don't know how to get free of this, help me, help me …* And he clings to the child as if to the only real thing left in a world of shadows.