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His Father’s Eyes - A Kholin Family Fic

RHYTHM OF WAR SPOILERS

GO AWAY IF YOU DON’T WANT RHYHTM OF WAR SPOILERS

THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING. GET OUT OF HERE.

Title: His Father’s Eyes

Summary: Set in the middle of Rhythm of War: Dalinar has a late-running meeting so Wit suggests that he and Jasnah can watch Gavinor for a few hours. Jasnah is very awkward and unsure around her baby nephew because this woman will look into the face of god and spit cheerfully, but if you confront her with a toddler she will crumble. Wit encourages her to bond with him and it gets incredibly soft and emotional.

Teaser: ‘Gavinor solemnly picked up his little blue-clad soldier doll, the same one he’d had when Elhokar had rescued him from Aeseudan and the Palace of Kholinar, and walked steadily towards her.

Irrationally, she found herself sitting up straighter in her chair, gripping its arms, bracing herself. As if this was a chasmfiend hauling itself from a black pit on the Shattered Plains, advancing menacingly upon her, mandibles clacking, not her toddler aged nephew. Ridiculous. And yet.

He stared up at her with big, green eyes. Her father’s eyes. Her brother’s eyes. Both now gone. Dead. In part because of her failures. Now Gavinor looked at her with them, and the fear that she would fail him, too, assaulted her in a wave so strong and unexpected, it was almost overwhelming.’

Link: ao3

Commission Link: Have me write other cosmere characters

Jasnah allowed herself a moment to pause her work. She had been going without pause for several hours now, and she could tell it was starting to have a negative impact on her. Reviewing troop casualty reports from the latest battle was a grim task indeed.

Letting her mind wander, she glanced to the opposite side of the tent where Wit was entertaining little Gavinor.

It was...Nice, she allowed, to take her mind off the cost of this war they were fighting, to remind herself who they were fighting it for. She felt partially responsible for every one of the deaths listed before her.

Not only did she, irrationally, wonder if there was more she could have done to support them on the battlefield. She had sent them. She was their Queen. In Alethkar that meant she was also their ultimate military leader. She had ordered them to die for her, and her cause. And they had.

It was a worthy cause. Not fighting would lead to all of their deaths. To the destruction or domination of their entire world by the oppressive power of hatred. But it was still hard to read those numbers. To know their fear. To feel their blood upon her hands.

Gavinor reminded her why she was doing this. Not just for her family, but for all of the children on Roshar. She would win this war for them, for their futures, for the chance at peace for them that still lived. Its heart fluttering, lungs filled with blood, wheezing. But still. There was a chance.

Dalinar typically kept Gavinor with him. He had taken very seriously to being more involved in the little boy’s life, which Jasnah approved of, in general. However, he’d had a meeting with the army generals today, who had wanted his perspective on today’s assault, as he’d been the one of the two of them on the field.

He’d asked Jasnah if she wanted to spend a few hours with her nephew. Wit had jumped in to agree on her behalf. He claimed afterwards, in response to her cool glare, thought it would be ‘good for her’. Maybe it was. All the same, she wouldn’t have allowed it to continue without his assurance that he would stay with her.

Jasnah loved Gavinor. As the last good thing she had left of her little brother, and in his own right as her nephew. He was her family. That meant there was nothing she would not do for him. But he was still very young, and she had never been entirely comfortable around small children.

They seemed so...Strange. So alien. They felt unpredictable to her, unknowable, irrational. That unsettled her more than she would ever openly admit.

An adult you could ask questions, you could track patterns and learn to read their emotions, their moods, their personality. You could predict their future behaviours based on observation of their past. They were far easier for her to understand and respond to.

Children were precisely the opposite. And they seemed so...Fragile. Not simply physically. It was so easy to say the wrong thing, to cause unintended distress. They were as changeable and flighty as the seasons. Happy and content one moment, screaming with some unknowable torment the next. She hated the sound of their crying. It cut through her, and it made it very difficult to focus on anything else.

Wit, meanwhile, was so natural with Gavinor, it was as though he’d been made for this purpose.

This being, so ancient and alien in so many ways, seemed able to do so easily things that seemed impossible to her. The ease with which he seemed to communicate, and connect with other people. How he seemed to instantly understand them.

His long life experience no doubt assisted with this, but she knew it was more than that. This was who he was, who he had always been. He had not needed that experience to know how to do this.

He had used another form of Investiture he called Awakening to bring her nephew’s little Kholin doll to life. It now walked around, allowing Gavinor to chase it, hugging him when he caught up to it.

The child had been quite upset at first that his little soldier would not pick up a sword or fight. All it did was hug him, and play with him. She’d caught Wit’s eye when this had first come to light and an understanding had passed between them. A gratitude she had not been able to put into words.

Jasnah understood her Uncle’s desire to have Gavinor with him, and why that meant he had brought him here, despite it being a warzone. He was trying so hard to avoid making the mistakes he personally had made before that he was ignoring the others they were making.

She didn’t know a great deal about children. Though she had done as much research as her current schedule would allow. But she did not think encouraging a five year old’s preoccupation with violence and revenge was a healthy thing.

She would be damned if she allowed her brother’s only son to be drawn into continuing the same cycle of pointless, painful revenge that had killed him.

Whatever else Elhokar might have wanted for Gavinor, it would never be that.

They had talked, a little, before she had left the Plains for her research. On quiet evenings alone in his palace complex save flamespren dancing in the hearth. She wished, sometimes, she’d made time for more of those.

They had spoken together about the revenge against the Listeners for what they had done to their father. It had been a complex thing within Elhokar, though it had never been a driving force for her.

Emotion was a difficult thing for both of them, but in different ways. Jasnah often felt that she didn’t have enough input. That everyone around her got so much more from the world around them than she did. That in turn made their own responses so much stronger, and more consuming than it had ever felt for her.

Elhokar...Elhokar had gotten far too much input.

Jasnah loved their Uncle Dalinar. And she had loved their father in his own right. She knew they had both tried their best for him. But they had never allowed Elhokar to be his own person. Every decision he made. Every path that he took. Every feeling he had. Every thought that entered his mind was subject not only to his own will, but to theirs.

It was not enough for Elhokar to do what he’d thought was right. He also had to do what he thought his father, and Dalinar, would think was right. Their approval and judgement had always seemed to have more weight in his mind than his own.

Declaring war on the Listeners had, in part, been a reaction of grief and pain at losing his father. But he’d confessed to her, in private, and under the strictest oath of confidence, that he had also partially done it because he felt it was what was expected of him.

The Alethi were a warlike people. It was how they dealt with almost everything. This was something Jasnah was working, with Wit’s help, to change. The foundation of a people’s society being violence and conflict could never lead to stability or longevity. The formation of their own storming unified kingdom had only come because of war against their own.

It would be unthinkable, then, that the Alethi would not go to war with the Listeners in retribution. It was not enough to execute those who had ordered Gavilar’s assassination. It was not enough to exile them from their lands. It was not enough. It was not enough. It was never enough. That was the problem.

Everyone expected Elhokar to declare war, and so he had.

They all expected him to relentlessly pursue vengeance for his father, and so he had.

Anything less, anything other, might have implied that he didn’t care, and he couldn’t have that.

Some had suggested that of Jasnah, when she’d left the Plains to pursue her research. Foolishness. But she had felt able to do what she thought was right. Elhokar...Elhokar had always been forced to do what he thought others felt was right.

Her heart ached for her brother in that moment. She did not often think of him. There was so much to do. So much else to focus on. Something she did deliberately, perhaps, to avoid this second grief and failure that now haunted her. But when she did…

She still remembered him as the child he had been. Eager, and earnest, and so desperate to please everyone. To do good. To live up to his father’s name expectations.

That had never been possible. And that had been the true tragedy of her brother’s life: it had always been doomed. He had spent so much time chasing that impossible dream, trying to attain a thing that he had been destined to fail at before he’d ever begun.

Sighing, she stopped her thoughts as they began to spiral down into a pool of grief. Instead, she focused on Wit and Gavinor.

He had used Lightweaving to create a whole scene for him to play in. Something gentle, and calm. Dalinar wouldn’t have approved, likely, but it made Jasnah smile a little.

There was thick green grass that did not pull away and hide when the little boy ran through it. Gavinor was giggling, chasing small round, furry creatures with too large ears that kept popping in and out of holes in the ground.

Every now and then he hurtled past Wit and made some request of him to add something else to the scene, and Wit would bow and comply, weaving the boy’s imaginations into life around him.

Gavinor had started referring to him as ‘Uncle Wit’. Which was as endearing as it was concerning.

As if sensing this thought, Wit glanced up suddenly and caught her watching them.

He smiled, rather slyly, and she immediately felt a flicker of concern. He allowed the illusion to fade, and she frowned at him, though Gavinor didn’t seem upset.

She watched as Wit crouched down and whispered something in the boy’s ear, smiling encouragingly. Then he lounged against the desk behind him and folded his arms, watching, smirking.

Gavinor solemnly picked up his little blue-clad soldier doll, the same one he’d had when Elhokar had rescued him from Aeseudan and the Palace of Kholinar, and walked steadily towards her.

Irrationally, she found herself sitting up straighter in her chair, gripping its arms, bracing herself. As if this was a chasmfiend hauling itself from a black pit on the Shattered Plains, advancing menacingly upon her, mandibles clacking, not her toddler aged nephew. Ridiculous. And yet.

He stared up at her with big, green eyes. Her father’s eyes. Her brother’s eyes. Both now gone. Dead. In part because of her failures. Now Gavinor looked at her with them, and the fear that she would fail him, too, assaulted her in a wave so strong and unexpected, it was almost overwhelming.

Fortunately, she was well-practiced at controlling herself, and gave nothing away. Not that the little boy seemed to pick up on, anyway. Wit, standing in his corner, cocked his head slightly at her. But uncharacteristically he said nothing.

Without saying a word, Gavinor handed his little doll towards her. Cautiously, she took it, and held it in her lap, tracing her fingers over the stitching on the buttons. The top one was coming loose. He could pull that free and choke on it. She would need to speak to his nurses and ensure that they took the time to repair it for him before-

Gavinor tugged gently at her havah, trying to get her attention. She forced a smile, looking at him instead of the doll, and said, in what she hoped was a warm, friendly voice appropriate for a young child, “Thank you, Gavinor.”

Wit, the insufferable bastard, was being of no help whatsoever. He was still lounging at the back of the tent, watching, as if he were at some sort of play.

She glared pointedly at him, but he glanced down at the desk at the exact moment she looked up and pretended to be busy rearranging his papers, so apparently did not see. Storms. She was going to kill him. She-

Gavinor tugged again, gentle, but insistent, on the edge of her havah and she looked back down at him. He seemed...Expectant?

Stormfather, why was this so difficult?

A part of her wanted to call Wit over, to ask him to deal with Gavinor instead. Though she very much doubted he would deign to hear her command. But looking down into those eyes, she couldn’t. She couldn’t just give him away, pass him off on someone else. Make him feel less wanted, and more alone, than he already did.

This was awkward. It was uncomfortable. It was hard. It felt storming impossible at times. But this was her nephew. Her brother’s son. Her family.

She was not as some people whispered. She was not a heartless monster. A thing that was more creature than human. A being that did not feel, did not care, could not love.

She had difficulty connecting to people. But she wanted to. Storms but she did. Most of the time. She cared, and she loved, and she tried. In her own way, a way most didn’t see or understand. But that had become enough for her, now.

Biting her lip, she looked down at the doll in her lap, then stood him on his little booted feet.

“He’s very nice, Gavinor,” she said, a little stiffly, but the boy didn’t seem to mind.

He nodded solemnly, “It’s my daddy,” he told her, very seriously.

Jasnah nodded back, which seemed the right thing to do, “I see that,” she told him, though she didn’t.

Gavinor studied her face for a moment, as though it was a book with text he could almost translate, but not quite. He wasn’t sure what he saw. Some cold, distant person he was supposed to call ‘aunt’ and love because they told him she was family?

Then he said, very matter-of-factly, “You look a lot like my daddy.”

Something caught in her chest at that, it was so unexpected. But she just nodded and said, “Yes. He was my brother.”

“I know that,” the boy answered, in a tone that implied she was stupid.

She found herself smiling, “Of course you do.”

“Grampa says that he was brave,” Gavinor informed her, “He says daddy was a hero.”

“He was,” Jasnah agreed, and meant it this time.

To his little boy, he had been. And that would have been what mattered most to Elhokar. To him. Not the pressures exerted by others. But deep down. In his heart. Being a hero to this little boy would be more important to him than anything else he had ever done. It would eclipse his perceived failures entirely.

Gavinor scrunched his face up in an expression she struggled to place. Was he upset thinking about his father? About that terrible day in Kholinar when that bastard bridgeman had murdered her little brother in front of his young son?

Then, slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his hands towards her, looking expectant again.

Oh Storms.

He looked as though he wanted her to pick him up, to hold him, perhaps to offer him comfort, as Navani had probably done for him countless times before.

Jasnah couldn’t do that. She couldn’t be what this little boy needed. She wasn’t her mother. She wasn’t even Wit, or Dalinar. They would have found some way to reach out, to soothe him.

She was not them. She was cold, and distant, and sterile. She was the last thing this child needed. She would only disappoint him, leave him worse than he had been before, confused, as well as upset.

She looked at Wit for assistance but he just inclined his head and gestured for her to proceed.

Storm him. He was probably right, but storm him. She wasn’t ready for this. She couldn’t do it.

“Jasnah,” Ivory observed, helpfully, voice so soft only she could hear him, “I believe that the small human you are related to would like you to pick him up.”

Storms. Even Ivory was better at this than she was. She resisted the impulse to bury her face in her hands in answer.

Carefully, hesitant, certain she would somehow do this wrong, she put her hands under Gavinor’s outstretched arms and lifted him up.

He sat quite happily on her lap, so that was something, but continued to watch her with those impenetrable green eyes. Eyes that had seen too much for his age.

“Grampa says you’re Radiant,” Gavinor told her, little hands picking with vague interest at the embroidery on her havah.

“I am,” she confirmed, with half a glance at Wit in a desperate plea for help. But he just continued his idle lounging from a distance.

She might actually kill him.

It would be both instructive, giving her an insight into how he returned after he died, which he’d implied he could do. It would also be an excellent remedy for her fury towards him. A scenario with no downsides whatsoever. That made a delightful change for her of late.

“Do you have a friend spren?” Gavinor asked her, distracting her from her wistful fantasies about how, precisely, she would like to brutally murder her partner.

‘Friend-spren’ was what Gavinor referred to the Radiant spren as. Children, from a young age, came to understand regular spren as features of the landscape. It had taken a little extra explaining on Navani’s part to help him understand Radiant spren. He had some...Unfortunate experiences with more intelligent spren who were always around.

“I do,” she told him, “His name is Ivory.”

“Can I see him?” the boy asked, a little bounce of eagerness in him, which was good to see.

Her mother said he was too solemn, for his age. Even Jasnah, with her limited experience or instincts towards children, could grasp that fact.

She hesitated, “He can be quite...Nervous sometimes,” she said cautiously.

Gavinor’s face fell at once, and her heart plummeted at the sight, “Is he afraid of me?”

“No, no,” Jasnah said, scrambling to fix her mistake, “He just likes to be careful,” she tried to explain.

Gavinor nodded, as if that made sense. Which was strangely heartbreaking.

“He-” Jasnah began, but she broke off as movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention.

Ivory had grown to a visible size on her shoulder. He liked to ride on the inside of her collar, usually, which allowed him to be invisible to most, but close enough to speak with her as needed. Very practical.

Now he stood, around the height of her hand, clearly visible to the little boy, whose face lit up at the sight of him.

“He’s very pointy,” he observed, after contemplating him for a long moment.

This was a rather shrewd observation, though he might not know it. ‘Pointy’ described Ivory rather well, in her estimation.

He reached out, then, surprisingly, stopped himself, and looked at her, “Can I touch him?” he asked.

“That is not for me to say,” she said. When he frowned, confused, she added, “You would need to ask Ivory.”

He considered this, then addressed her shoulder, “Can I touch you?” he asked, eagerly.

Ivory sniffed, “You may, young relation,” he said, at last.

That surprised her. Making himself visible was already a large allowance on Ivory’s part. She had expected him to refuse this latest request, but felt a rush of gratitude at him for allowing it.

The little boy frowned at this, however, “My name’s Gavinor,” he said, a little indignantly. Jasnah smiled.

“Gavinor,” Ivory agreed, stiffly. Then he said, “Hold out your hands.”

She loved him for the effort he was making in this. For her. She could sense his discomfort at being seen, even in this relatively private setting. But he did it for her, for her family, which he knew was of the utmost importance to her.

Gavinor glanced at Jasnah, who nodded, which seemed to encourage him, for he cautiously did as he was told.

Ivory walked briskly down her arm and then onto the little boy’s outstretched palms.

“I can’t feel him,” Gavinor said, looking disappointed.

“That is because I exist largely in the Cognitive Realm, young Gavinor,” Ivory informed him in his clipped voice. “I have very little presence in this Realm, despite my bond to your aunt.”

Gavinor blinked at this, then looked at Jasnah, who suddenly became very overwhelmed by the thought of having to try and explain Realmatic Theory to a five year old.

Fortunately, at that moment, Wit decided to make himself of use, finally, and glided over, squatting down so he was on Gavinor’s eye level.

“Ivory is a spren, remember,” he told the boy, “He has his own spren world where he stays. That’s why you can’t feel him. You can see him because your aunt Jasnah lets him be here talking to you a little bit.”

Gavinor scrunched up his face, trying to understand this, “Like the bunnies?” he finally said, looking at Wit for reassurance.

Wit laughed lightly, “A little like the bunnies, yes.”

Jasnah made a mental note to ask Wit what on Roshar a ‘bunny’ was once Gavinor had been safely returned to Dalinar’s care. In the meantime, the arm Gavinor was leaning against was starting to feel numb, and she really had to get back to those troop reports, and-

To her consternation, Gavinor yawned and settled down against her. Amusingly, he coaxed Ivory off of his hands back onto her shoulder first, as if he was a cremling. Ivory complied with characteristic dignity

“Aunt Jasnah?” Gavinor said, sounding sleepy.

“Yes, Gavinor?”

“You’re gonna stop the bad things, right? Like, like what was at home,” his lip trembled slightly, and he grabbed at her havah’s embroidery again before saying, “So they don’t hurt anyone else?”

There was still innocence in those eyes of his. For all seen before their time. There was still the belief, the hope, that someone else would be able to put it all right for him again.

She had sworn herself to this task years ago. Had taken the burden of protecting Roshar and its people onto herself. It was why she had bonded Ivory. It was why she had done so much, sacrificed so much, given so much all this time.

In this moment, looking into those eyes, she felt that burden grow all the heavier. She was the person Gavinor looked to to make everything right in his world again. She would do that for him. She had to do that for him. Or else die attempting it.

She tried to smile for him, and awkwardly patted his head as she said, “I’m going to do my best, Gavinor.”

He nodded, apparently approving of this answer, then, without further ado, he closed his eyes and snuggled into her. One hand held tight to his Kholin doll, the other held a bunched up clump of her havah.

She widened her eyes significantly at Wit and gestured wordlessly at this rapidly developing situation which was not something that could continue, of course.

Wit nodded reassuringly and moved away. She hoped he might return with Gavinor’s nurse but instead, infuriatingly, he just came back with a blanket which he tucked around the two of them.

“Wit,” she hissed, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb the child, “I can’t. I-”

“I do believe he’s already asleep, my dear, and so technically you already are,” Wit replied, sounding entirely too amused by this.

“Wit,” she growled, threateningly, though with a sleeping child nestled against her, she was not entirely sure what she was threatening him with.

She stared down at the little boy cuddled against her, and couldn’t shake the feeling that this was wrong.

How could he find comfort in her? How could he feel safe enough to sleep in her arms? How could he trust her when she did not even trust herself?

“This is a good thing, Jasnah,” Wit said, quietly, “Dalinar will be here to pick him up in an hour or so. It will not kill you to let him stay here and be held by you for that length of time.”

“This isn’t about me,” she whispered back, glaring.

Usually he always understood, always knew, so she did not have to struggle to try and put her emotions into words. This was something which had endeared her to him very quickly, yet now...

How could he not see the problem here? How could he not understand that this little boy was setting her up to be something that she could not be? He was going to look for things from her that she didn’t know how to give him. Things she had never known how to give anyone.

“I know,” Wit said, his voice gentle, “But perhaps you’re better at this than you think you are.”

“I think he’s just desperate,” Jasnah muttered.

“That’s rather harsh, dear one,” Wit commented lightly, “He is only five after all. And an orphan.”

“He is not an orphan,” Jasnah replied fiercely, resting a hand protectively on Gavinor’s back, “He still has his family.”

“Yes,” Wit said, quietly, “He does. I think he knows that. I think he may even know it better than you.”

“I still have work that needs to be done tonight,” Jasnah said, trying to be cold, and practical, trying to force Wit to take this child away from her, to show him why she could not be what he wanted.

Wit only gave her a soft smile and rested his hand on her back, “The dead shall wait, Jasnah,” he told her quietly, “The numbers will not change. Nor will the status of the war, or the analysis you will be draw from it all. They cannot be what you need right now.”

“And what do I need?” she asked, tone caught between frustration and curiosity.

“Life, Jasnah,” Wit said, quietly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head, “You need to be here for the life that is happening around you right now, that will continue to happen around you, as you spend time buried in things that have not been, missing it.”

She swallowed, recognising that he was right. She took a deep breath, then settled into the chair, allowing herself to slouch into a more comfortable position. Reaching down, she took Wit’s hand and gave it a small squeeze in silent gratitude.

She knew now that he had set up this whole appointment with Gavinor for her. To give her this moment, this much needed reminder amidst this flood of blood, and violence, and death, that life was still there. Like new vines pushing up between the splayed fingers of fallen corpses on a battlefield. Unseen. Unnoticed, amidst the grief. But still there. And worth pausing to take note of.

“Could you fetch a cushion for me, please?” she asked, quietly, “I would like to make Gavinor more comfortable before his Uncle comes to collect him.”

Wit smiled, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head, leaving to do as she’d asked, a mixture of pride and smugness on his sharp features.

***

A/N: First of all I have no idea how children work. I am Jasnah when it comes to small humans. If this is not how they do I apologise. I am a hopeless gay who tried my best.

Secondly: this was supposed to be short and fluffy. It failed on both counts but I’m kind of okay with that tbh. It’s criminal we’ve had legitimately no Jasnah and Elhokar content whatsoever - not even after he died. So I PRODUCED this content. And finally: Jasnah being low empathy is SUPER important to me and it was a lot of fun to explore that in this. Okay Taryn out. Pls throw comments at me. I’m a thirsty comment slut.

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