#more processing

As I’ve dealt with my own issues of denial and avoidance, and slowly learned to face things rather than run from them and pretend they don’t exist, I have eased off of Shallan. I used to resent her for not taking more positive steps, for feeding her unwillingness to come to terms with her past. But she made some strides forward.

Her fracturing of her self was concerning, but I loved it. I was so glad her deep issues weren’t all wrapped up nicely after WoR. She thinks she is all of her personas, and even though they might be based on aspects of her, they are still all covers. They help her hide and deflect. She has not yet embraced the scared little girl she actually is. She may not for some time yet. Shallan has a rough road ahead of her.

I’ve criticized her interactions with Wit, though I think what he did and said were generally perfect. He spoke many cutting and necessary truths. Shallan won’t be able to absorb all of it, though it will set her in the right direction.

“It’s not really her fault, but she’s still worthless.”

Shallan’s self-loathing, even while in the same breath saying that she didn’t cause her brokenness, hit me hard. She doesn’t let many people see how deeply she rejects herself. That quote above is said with “sneering.” She thinks she should have been better, somehow.

Wit stepped over to Shallan, then quietly folded his arms around her. She trembled, then twisted, burying her face in his shirt.

“You’re not a monster, Shallan,” Wit whispered.

Wit understands. He knows what she fears and what she needs to hear.

“Your other minds take over,” he whispered, “because they look so much more appealing. You’ll never control them until you’re confident in returning to the one who birthed them. Until you accept being you.”

How can she be “confident in returning to the one who birthed them”? Only if she likes that person. Only if she is comfortable with who that person is.

“For in you, I see a woman more wonderful than any of the lies.”

The flawed but genuine person is always better than the ‘perfect’ cover. The painful truth is better than a beautiful lie. You can love and connect to a real person. You cannot love a cover. Shallan has not learned this yet; she thinks her covers are actually more valuable than her true self.

“The longer you live, the more you fail.”

Let’s talk about failure. Let’s talk about Kaladin, and Teft, and Elhokar, and Renarin.

Kaladin, for all his limitations, really shines in Oathbringer. He hasn’t escaped his depression, but he hasn’t let that stop him from becoming a capable Radiant. He went to Hearthstone a changed man, assertive and confident, but still Kaladin. He gets set in his own thinking. He misunderstands. For example, he believes that Laral needs to be saved from Roshone, and is sure she is mistaken when she doesn’t agree with him. He has grown, but retains his stubborn overprotectiveness and idealism.

After Elhokar, Kaladin is reeling. This loss is the failure he feared. He had been so determined to protect Elhokar, to save Dalinar’s Tien.

“Kaladin’s not well,” she said.

“I have to be well,” Kaladin said, his voice hoarse as he climbed back to his feet.

And then:

“I survived Bridge Four,” Kaladin growled. “I’m strong enough to survive this.”

This reaction is so different from how he’s responded before. He’s trying to be better. We see more of his familiar struggle with his demons in his POV:

You’re just looking for something to latch on to. Something to feel.

Because the darkness was coming.

It fed off the pain of defeat, the agony of losing men he’d tried to protect. [...]

Get out, Kaladin thought, squeezing his eyes shut. Get out, get out, get out!

It would continue until numbness seemed preferable. Then that numbness would claim him and make it hard to do anything at all. It would become a sinking, inescapable void from within which everything looked washed out. Dead. [...]

Were these his only two options? Pain or oblivion?

Fight it.

From Adolin’s perspective, those first two quotes, Kaladin is plenty strong and capable. Inside his own head, Kaladin is fighting something incredibly tough, and barely keeping himself from losing. He is precariously balanced against a darkness that will overwhelm him if he doesn’t work every moment to keep it at bay, and it’s only a matter of time before it consumes him. That is the hopelessness of trying to battle against depression.

You would think that I would want every success for Kaladin, You’d think I’d be cheering him on to victory at every step. Yet I am so, so glad he didn’t say the Fourth Ideal. Let me see if I can explain.

In Kaladin’s perspective, failure is inevitable. He might not say that he’s cursed, though part of him still believes it. In spite of that, he has an idealist streak: he pushes himself to be perfect. To protect people. To save everyone. (That type of all-or-nothing goal is part of why failure is inevitable for him, but I won’t go into that too deeply here. One initial “failure” made him want to prevent anything like that from ever happening again, but that wasn’t in his control (stupid free agency) and that failure spurred him into guilt and more idealism, and so on...)

Everyone says I will swear the Fourth Ideal soon, and in so doing, earn my armor. I simply don’t think that I can. Am I not supposed to want to help people?

--From drawer 10-12, sapphire

The Third Ideal meant standing up for anyone, if needed, But who decided what was “right”? Which side was he supposed to protect?

The Fourth Ideal was unknown to him, but the closer he drew to it, the more frightened he became.

The Fourth Ideal is something particularly difficult for those who want to protect others. I don’t have a guess about specifics, but it seems to be something related to...self-preservation?

You know what you need to do.

“I...can’t,” Kaladin finally whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I can’t lose him, but...oh, Almighty...I can’t save him.”

He couldn’t say those Words.

He wasn’t strong enough.

And later:

Storms, he could be down on himself sometimes. Was that the flaw that had prevented him from speaking the Words of the Fourth Ideal?

He knew the Words. He also knew he couldn’t say them and mean them.

Kaladin is sincere about his commitments. Combined with how deeply he feels his failures, how familiar the sense of not meeting some standard is to him, makes these moments of him not yet able to swear the next Ideal feel more like a triumph than a failure. When you’re not ready for the next step, it’s fine. Not being ready is not exactly a failure anyway. Kaladin accepts where he is. He’ll keep moving forward, and when he can meet the challenge of the Fourth Ideal, he will say the Words. That time is not yet.

I thought I’d be ready to talk about Elhokar, but I guess that’s a challenge I’m not ready to take on yet. Another time.

Shallan fears her value and makes up for it by creating aspects she believes are better than her true self. Kaladin fears he won’t be good enough but consistently tries to prove his worth, at great risk and often against impossible odds. I’d argue that no one feels more worthless than Teft does.

Teft doesn’t believe in his worth. He doesn’t deflect the pain through denial or repeatedly try to prove himself. He has completely despaired.

You’re already a shame to the crew, Teft, and you know it, he thought. You’re a godless waste of spit.

Oh, Teft. So focused on his weaknesses that he doesn’t see anything else. He sees his pain and his addiction, and nothing else.

He doesn’t admit his capable command, his support of the crew, or his determination to face the truth, even when it hurts. He doesn’t give himself any credit for what he does right.

I want to mention how wonderful Bridge Four is. When they find Teft in the firemoss den, they express anger not at Teft but at the den keeper. Rock wants to beat the guy with his own torn-off limbs, Kaladin insults him as he pays Teft’s debts. They show only care for Teft.

Storms, they were good men. Better friends than he deserved. They were all growing into something grand, while Teft…Teft just stayed on the ground, looking up.

And all he can think of is that he doesn’t deserve it. He keeps shooing away the spren who lingers by him, waiting for him to take the next step.

“Can you see it, Teft?” the spren whispered. “Can you feel the Words?”

“I’m broken.”

“Who isn’t? Life breaks us, Teft. Then we fill the cracks with something stronger.”

“I make myself sick.”

“Teft,” she said, a glowing apparition in the darkness, “that’s what the Words are about.”

And then he says the Third Ideal, swearing in his self-loathing to protect himself. Of all the journeys in this book, Teft’s is maybe the most human. He hasn’t conquered his demons, hasn’t yet discovered his worth. He’s taken a small and very difficult step towards something better. He isn’t healed. He doesn’t see his own value or love himself. But he’s started the journey.