Ah, merde. She thinks he's an idiot who doesn't know how his own government works. He can feel that interest she'd just shown him wilting away like a tulip in the heat.
He's quiet for a moment, fingers plucking at the loose fabric by the elbows of his shirt. Either he doubles down here and really, actually lies about living in Lumière— or he risks her ire (but also her interest again) by admitting that, no, he hasn't actually lived there in 67 years. Oh, and also, he's over 67 years old.
It's not like he actually hid it from her. Technically, she just never asked. So, he lands on aggressively gaslighting her into thinking it just never came up. "As it turns out, it's been a long time since I've been to Lumière."
Jasnah goes absolutely motionless. Not stiff. Not startled. Just...still — like an axehound scenting something unexpected among the rockbuds. Her eyes narrow, but only slightly. Enough to signal that a dozen thought processes have begun running in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
A long time since he's been to Lumière. A phrasing so vague it’s practically an admission.
"Is that so," she says. Quiet, flat, unhappy.
Inside, her thoughts sharpen: he never said he lived there recently. She assumed. Even after he admitted to being an Expeditioner. But even that had felt like it should have been a recent development. And why did he let her believe otherwise? She can't trace it back to a lie. Only omissions. Jasnah feels a familiar frisson of annoyance.
She studies him openly now, head angling just slightly, as though adjusting the focus on a lens. It's a closer inspection than she's given him since (perhaps) she first met him.
"It appears," she says with unnerving calm, "that we have a misunderstanding."
"Um," he says again, trying and failing not to look like a guilty dog who's just torn up her slippers. Telling the truth always makes him feel uncomfortable. Still, he does his level best to keep his tone light, casual. Like there's no reason to be upset with him at all.
"A while."
Technically, it hasn't been too long. Technically, he's been back to Lumière semi-recently. Clea had entered the Canvas once more and told him that Alicia—her Alicia, the real one—had fallen into it in an attempt to get their shared mother to leave. Maman's chroma had overtaken her, she'd said, repainted her into a denizen of the Canvas without memory of who she was. I don't have time to deal with this. Do something useful for once and make sure she doesn't get into any trouble.
But his scarce visits over the last sixteen years hadn't really been living there. It'd barely been existing there. He'd kept to himself, watching Alicia from afar. Burning with jealousy as he watched her with her foster brother, smiling up at him the way his Alicia used to smile at him before the fire mangled her face and stole her joy.
"I'm a bit older than I look," he says, like it's just good genetics.
Jasnah blinks once as if Verso has just presented her with a puzzle she did not request and does not appreciate. Namely, a puzzle that's a little too simple to solve.
"Older than you look," she repeats, voice flat as a polished blade. She does so enjoy turning a man's words back against him.
Inside, her reaction is sharper Storms. Not another one. Not another ageless worldhopper with selective honesty and a talent for being inconveniently charming and annoyingly interesting.
She maintains the same proximity. She doesn't withdraw; she doesn't shift onto a back foot; she doesn't so much as lean away. He tells her he's older than he looks and she makes a careful spectacle of examining his features. Like she's one errant syllable away from grabbing his chin with her palm and holding him in place.
"Very well," she eventually says. "You realize I now have questions."
She turns fully toward him — poised, regal, absolutely done with plausible deniability.
"And I expect real answers. Can you do that for me?"
Real answers. Not whatever fiction he thinks will go down easier. It isn't personal. He's merely reaping the consequences of another man's habitual lies. Perhaps that transference shows in the way she first confirms whether he considers himself capable of giving her what she wants.
Questions. Verso stiffens almost imperceptibly, mind flashing with memories of being abducted, interrogated— why couldn't you just let it go? Julie raising her sword against him, accusing him of betrayal. Holding her body close in some sick facsimile of an embrace, feeling the life drain from her body as his blade buried itself in her gut. Laying her down on the grass, promising her: it won't be forever. Maman will bring you back.
How unhelpful of her, then, to take yet another step closer . Nearly so close that it could be mistaken as a precursor to an embrace. In reality, she wants their conversation to stay hushed and private between their bodies. One hand steadies on the rail.
"How much older, Verso?"
Than you look.
She will take his assertion literally. If he is to be an open book, then she will be the avid reader creasing pages and leaving indelible marks in margins as she attempts to extract meaning from him.
"Well," he says, "that all depends on how old you think I look." Not a day over 21, right?
He turns his head to look at the ship behind them, eyes darting around before he leans in closer to Jasnah, voice lowered. "I don't know why," he lies, "but after the Fracture, some of us stopped aging." There's an almost pre-rehearsed feel to the words, like he's had to make this explanation before, and that it's been perfected through trial and error. "And the Gommage can't touch us."
Like he's trying to cut any questions off at the pass, he rattles off, "I didn't tell you earlier because it wasn't relevant, and you didn't ask." Another lie. He didn't tell her because he was worried about how she'd react. Like how he's worried about being thrown over the side of the ship right now.
Her posture may be stiff and still, but not to the point where she can't fervently roll her eyes when he sidesteps her first question. Storms! Her lip curls, and a measure of impatience settles across her shoulders.
His explanation doesn't phase her. Perhaps she misses its rote nature because she's already written off the 'why.' To her, the conclusion is almost painfully obvious: he's a Cognitive Shadow, like the Heralds. Unless...
"I'm asking now. How old?" She hones in on the piece of information she wants, but he hasn't yet provided. "One hundred? A thousand? Five thousand?"
Trying—but not quite succeeding—at hiding his irritation at the questions: "Does it matter?"
One hundred is the same as one thousand. Both of them are unnatural. Besides, it's not like she's going to be celebrating his birthday any time soon. He sighs, grinding his teeth a little before replying.
"Closer to one hundred than one thousand. The Fracture was 67 years ago now."
Does it matter? Whether asked in irritation or otherwise, Jasnah gives the challenge it's due process. She chews thoughtfully on the inside of her cheek.
"Yes, it matters."
It matters because it's a data point and she collects data points. It matters because it's something real about him. It matters because the last ageless man she spent this much time was over 10,000 years old (if Wit's own word can be trusted) and those milennia had thoroughly compromised his ability to function person-to-person with a mortal like herself. She'd felt it in every game he played. Every slanted response.
But closer to one hundred? Jasnah nods. She can work with one hundred. Although she doesn't return the favour and tell him why it matters.
Instead, she makes inferences: "You go on the Expeditions. And you survive them."
And sometimes not, when he can't bear it anymore. But he's been a part of more Expeditions than he hasn't been, whether helping or hindering them.
Matter-of-fact: "I join the Expeditions, and I guide them. Immortality is—" A moment of waffling, here. "A curse from the Paintress. I have a vested interest in the Expeditions' success."
He holds her gaze for just a moment, then steps away, creating a little distance. "That's all."
...The Paintress continues to sound suspiciously Shard-like. Cultivation, the third Shard with partial dominion over Roshar, has only recently become known for her boons and curses. Jasnah opens her mouth, prepared to ask something about Her again. But...
She recognizes the ways in which he's withdrawing. Jasnah doesn't feel guilty, but she does ease up. Just a little. Now might be a more appropriate moment to file observations rathet than chase them.
Intolerable. Predictable death. She rethinks some of their conversations, and many of her assumptions. In the pit of her stomach, she feels a strange-nauseus desire to admit that he's fascinating. She pries because she wants to pop his soul open and trace its line. It's causes and effects. The only immortals she's known have long since gone mad. Or are Wit. Bastard.
"I see." Calm, again. Less like a scholar finding a rare book. Gently, and with perhaps a rather misapplied attempt at comfort: "You aren't the first...long-lived person I've met."
She doesn't say immortal. In many respects, immortality can't be proven. It's just death thag hasn't yet stuck. The bastard taught her that.
This is really a conversation they should be having in the privacy of their locked cabin, but clearly, Jasnah does not have a sense for which subjects should be private. And, admittedly, he finds the idea of her having encountered another immortal before him interesting. Relieving, even. Everyone else he's ever told has found it... alarming.
After all, it's hard to trust someone when he's somehow the only person among you who isn't affected by the annual mass killing. He gets that.
Where to even begin? She ought to explain the Ten Heralds, but she knows there are gaps in the story she simply can't fill. She could explain Wit, but... No. For all her granstanding over honesty, there are truths she would also like to keep to herself.
Jasnah has to remind herself (even now) that everything he's saying could yet be false. Not all the Heralds are yet accounted for. What if this was one of them? Addled by his years of torture on Braize. Delusional, creating a whole new world to hold his denial.
No. Ivory would have been able to distinguish a Herald. Oh, she'd like to ask the spren to pop into the Cognitive and give her a better read on Verso's presence there.
"The man whose position you're auditioning for. Oddly enough. He... well, he'd been alive long enough to witness the first founding of our cities."
Her turn to carefully navigate the truth and omit details. She's mentioned her former Wit and she's mentioned her former lover. But she's never drawn a line between the two aloud.
Also oddly enough: "He, too, came from elsewhere."
Hehe, he's auditioning for both of Wit's positions, actually. 😇
"Yeah?" It wouldn't be right to say that Verso perks up, but it is good to hear that Jasnah's familiar with someone else who shares his— affliction. Perhaps to an even greater degree; witnessing the first founding of Rosharan cities must mean he's older than Verso, maybe even older than Esquie.
It's good to hear. And yet, on another level... isn't it odd? It's such a ridiculous coincidence that he might think it isn't a coincidence at all. That there's something inherent to him, something written in his very cells that screams replacement.
That's crazy, of course, so he doesn't say anything about it. Just lets it make him feel kind of like shit.
"You said he was unpopular. What happened to him?"
A petty vicious streak in Jasnah wants to answer: does it matter? Feeding his own protest back to him. But... of course it matters. She's just revealed the existence of not only another immortal, but another world-hopper too. Why shouldn't he be curious?
Even so, it isn't as if she can tell the whole truth. So Jasnah ponders her answer, not bothering to hide how she considers her next words.
"He left."
After she dumped his ass, sure. But he did indeed leave! That's accurate.
"Being from elsewhere, he had business and priorities that took him away from Roshar. I released him from his service."
Not that it was ever required. Sure, Wit had been her servant. But in many ways he was something beyond the courts of kings and queens. His loyalty had never truly been to her or her world. Although she likes to think he had an uncommon fondness for it.
She exhales through her nose - almost a sigh, steeling herself for something unpleasant.
"One more question. About logistics, or...body mechanics."
She looks across him. Head to toe. Thoughtful. Yes, she wants to know about what (exactly) this immortality means to him. Simple agelessness? Healing? Has he died and returned?
But after his earlier reactions, she intends to ease into any more questions about it.
Oh. Okay. It's better than what Verso had feared, at least: that maybe they turned on him and locked him in a steel box that they threw in the ocean, or chained him up somewhere, or— look, he's had a lot of time to contemplate things that could one day happen to him.
There's still a lot of ways you can harm someone who can't die. So, of course, his eyebrows raise at her question, slightly wary. "Body mechanics." Very euphemistic. Voice lowered again, he asks, "You mean you want to know what will happen if you stab me?"
Another cautious glance back at the few sailors milling about on the deck. Two of them are leaned against the railing opposite them, shooting the shit. Another is attempting to clean a mysterious stain. All of them look like people to whom he really, really doesn't want to have to explain why his immortality is perfectly normal and harmless.
Honestly, it's not any of her business, but he finds himself in a rather precarious predicament at the moment, not only stuck at sea with her now but stuck under her rule after, too. He pushes off the railing, taking a few steps away.
"Not a conversation to have in front of company, I think." He doesn't put his foot down about much, but he's putting it down about this. If she wants to know the gory details, she'll have to talk about it with him in private.
As if proving why they absolutely should not be having this discussion here, one of the sailors from across the way calls out, "Lovers' spat?"
The subject makes him uncomfortable. And his discomfort is by itself an interesting phenomenon. Does he resent it? Why? Has this backfired on him before? It doesn't occur to her that perhaps her means of approach might be too harah, too direct, too impersonal. The issue isn't with her, she supposes, but with someone else's thin skin.
He insists they retire to their small cabin to contunue. And Jasnah almost argues - or else almost dismisses the topic altogether in favour of staying on the deck. But then the sailor calls out about a lover's spat and Jasnah can't quite keep the faint flush off her cheeks. Anger or humiliation or both.
But what does she do when she encounters a challenge? She scales it. She strides into it head-on. She hooks an arm firmly around his elbow, erasing the space between their bodies - as if daring then sailors to still think the lovers are fighting.
"Back to the cabin, then," she directs. Soft in volume but not in tone.
Back to the cabin, then. He's too hassled by the semi-interrogation to even really appreciate having someone's arm around his, and once they enter the cabin he withdraws to lock the door, then check that it's locked again. Just in case. When he's confident that it is, he turns to Jasnah, arms crossed.
"Yes, I die. Then I get better."
Close enough to dying, anyway. He's been eaten, bisected, poisoned— it hurts, but it doesn't take. Not permanently.
"It's a real annoyance to die"—extremely unpleasant, actually—"so I try not to."
Being killed can confound. Jasnah chews on the memoey as she crosses the room, settling to take a seat on their bolted down trunk. It's not a throne, but it might as well be. Jasnah balances the heels of her palms on the trunk lid, leaning back. Her instincts still want to label him a Cognitive Shadow, but as far as she's aware Verso isn't Invested. And mustn't one be highly Invested when they first die in order to persist like that? Well. Not everyone.
Although she doesn't miss his displeasure, she doesn't let it dissuade her.
Does it matter? he doesn't say, because then they'll be having this conversation all night. Going around in circles, debating what is or isn't relevant for Jasnah to know.
Flat: "I don't know what you mean. I love talking about my affront-to-nature immortality."
He's not a fan, one can safely presume. With a sigh, he settles down on the desk bench again. He's fairly sure the nausea is returning now.
"As you can imagine, people haven't always taken the information very well." He frowns. "Guess it's hard to trust someone when they're the only one"—almost the only one—"not affected by the Gommage."
Hmm. Jasnah tracks his movement as he crosses the cabin. Head turning and eyes watching. He reveals more than he means to, she suspects, when he lets slip he's the only one She wonders which parts of him are truest: the musician, carefully teaching piano notes; the charmer, inviting women to dance in storm shelters; the immortal, heated and upset by these revelations.
Jasnah skips straight to the simple, obvious inference. The one he as good as says aloud, she validates: "You've told others before. And it's gone badly."
Quite badly, if his current mood is anything to go by. A different person might try to console Verso. Reassure him that she doesn't see him as an affront to nature. Or that if she doesn't trust him yet, it's got nothing to do with whether or not he can't die. Or that she knows what it feels like to be distrusted in turn when you tell someone something in confidence.
Jasnah isn't a different person. She doesn't enjoy his unhappiness, but she doesn't care to soothe it in some saccharine way either.
"I lied last night. There's another reason I sleep so poorly. Perhaps pedestrian in comparison to staring down the void of immortality," she remembers that word from yes. Void. "But it's a bit more involved than concern for assassination attempts."
Information for information. Vulnerability for vulnerability. It's the only way she knows to make up for whatever discomfort she's caused. If she's upset him by dragging this truth into the light, she'll drag one of her own in to join it.
While Verso prefers coddling, he's accustomed to going without it. Once, he'd come home distraught over troubles with another boy at school; his attempts at charming his way out of the problem had done nothing. Clea had scoffed. Stop crying, Verso, and do something about it. She'd shown him how to throw a punch, and although he'd whined all the next day about his knuckles hurting, the issue had been resolved.
Another one of those memories that he doesn't know the true owner of. Maybe it never happened to him, and it's just something she gave him. Something he stole.
Regardless, reassurance isn't necessary. "More involved than an assassination attempt in your bed?" he asks, implicit encouragement to expand. Or is the truth she's willing to share simply that she lied, and nothing more?
For a long moment — held like a breath — she almost says nothing.
Almost lets the half-confession sit there like an ink blot on clean paper. Truth enough.
Her tongue presses against the back of a tooth. A steadying gesture, though she would never name it as such. If she speaks again, it will be more than she has ever offered anyone.
And Verso — Storms! — has shown an inconvenient amount of compassion and humanity. A softness she should not reward.
"I was ill. As a child."
A single, immaculate euphemism. Jasnah straightens, spine lengthening, posture reasserting itself like armour sliding back into place. She corrects herself, like she learned to do after her illness passed.
"Too much time in beds."
She does not say: too much time in restraints, too much time in dark rooms, too much time begging to be believed. Those details gather at the back of her throat like silt. Heavy and unspeakable. She would like — absurdly — to tell him she knows what it is to be treated as something unnatural. To be hidden for the comfort of others.
But she cannot shape the words past the flat, slanted I was ill.
So instead, she gestures with her chin toward the bolted cot, voice returning to its cool, dry equilibrium:
"Soft beds are worse. Perhaps that one will be uncomfortable enough to be tolerable."
Hmm. Verso, of course, imagines this to be a physical illness. Not something he has a lot of personal experience with. Even before the Fracture, he'd so rarely been hurt or unwell. He hadn't known the truth yet, about the Canvas or his circumstances in it, but he'd still felt invincible.
There is someone that he knows who has experienced such ailments, though.
"My sister, the younger one," he says. Alicia. "She was... trapped in a terrible fire. At our house." The one that Verso should have died in. He doesn't know what to do with the fact that Maman spared him yet chose to make Alicia suffer. Face mangled, throat burned so badly that she can no longer speak. If it were anyone else, he'd be disgusted and repulsed that a mother could do that to her own child.
"Her convalescence was— lengthy, and difficult." He can still see her face the day that the bandages first came off, when she'd seen herself in the mirror for the first time. "So I understand. It must have been traumatic."
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He's quiet for a moment, fingers plucking at the loose fabric by the elbows of his shirt. Either he doubles down here and really, actually lies about living in Lumière— or he risks her ire (but also her interest again) by admitting that, no, he hasn't actually lived there in 67 years. Oh, and also, he's over 67 years old.
It's not like he actually hid it from her. Technically, she just never asked. So, he lands on aggressively gaslighting her into thinking it just never came up. "As it turns out, it's been a long time since I've been to Lumière."
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A long time since he's been to Lumière. A phrasing so vague it’s practically an admission.
"Is that so," she says. Quiet, flat, unhappy.
Inside, her thoughts sharpen: he never said he lived there recently. She assumed. Even after he admitted to being an Expeditioner. But even that had felt like it should have been a recent development. And why did he let her believe otherwise? She can't trace it back to a lie. Only omissions. Jasnah feels a familiar frisson of annoyance.
She studies him openly now, head angling just slightly, as though adjusting the focus on a lens. It's a closer inspection than she's given him since (perhaps) she first met him.
"It appears," she says with unnerving calm, "that we have a misunderstanding."
Dangerously polite.
"How long has it been?"
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"Um," he says again, trying and failing not to look like a guilty dog who's just torn up her slippers. Telling the truth always makes him feel uncomfortable. Still, he does his level best to keep his tone light, casual. Like there's no reason to be upset with him at all.
"A while."
Technically, it hasn't been too long. Technically, he's been back to Lumière semi-recently. Clea had entered the Canvas once more and told him that Alicia—her Alicia, the real one—had fallen into it in an attempt to get their shared mother to leave. Maman's chroma had overtaken her, she'd said, repainted her into a denizen of the Canvas without memory of who she was. I don't have time to deal with this. Do something useful for once and make sure she doesn't get into any trouble.
But his scarce visits over the last sixteen years hadn't really been living there. It'd barely been existing there. He'd kept to himself, watching Alicia from afar. Burning with jealousy as he watched her with her foster brother, smiling up at him the way his Alicia used to smile at him before the fire mangled her face and stole her joy.
"I'm a bit older than I look," he says, like it's just good genetics.
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Jasnah blinks once as if Verso has just presented her with a puzzle she did not request and does not appreciate. Namely, a puzzle that's a little too simple to solve.
"Older than you look," she repeats, voice flat as a polished blade. She does so enjoy turning a man's words back against him.
Inside, her reaction is sharper Storms. Not another one. Not another ageless worldhopper with selective honesty and a talent for being inconveniently charming and annoyingly interesting.
She maintains the same proximity. She doesn't withdraw; she doesn't shift onto a back foot; she doesn't so much as lean away. He tells her he's older than he looks and she makes a careful spectacle of examining his features. Like she's one errant syllable away from grabbing his chin with her palm and holding him in place.
"Very well," she eventually says. "You realize I now have questions."
She turns fully toward him — poised, regal, absolutely done with plausible deniability.
"And I expect real answers. Can you do that for me?"
Real answers. Not whatever fiction he thinks will go down easier. It isn't personal. He's merely reaping the consequences of another man's habitual lies. Perhaps that transference shows in the way she first confirms whether he considers himself capable of giving her what she wants.
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He shoots Jasnah a glance.
"I'm an open book."
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"How much older, Verso?"
Than you look.
She will take his assertion literally. If he is to be an open book, then she will be the avid reader creasing pages and leaving indelible marks in margins as she attempts to extract meaning from him.
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He turns his head to look at the ship behind them, eyes darting around before he leans in closer to Jasnah, voice lowered. "I don't know why," he lies, "but after the Fracture, some of us stopped aging." There's an almost pre-rehearsed feel to the words, like he's had to make this explanation before, and that it's been perfected through trial and error. "And the Gommage can't touch us."
Like he's trying to cut any questions off at the pass, he rattles off, "I didn't tell you earlier because it wasn't relevant, and you didn't ask." Another lie. He didn't tell her because he was worried about how she'd react. Like how he's worried about being thrown over the side of the ship right now.
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His explanation doesn't phase her. Perhaps she misses its rote nature because she's already written off the 'why.' To her, the conclusion is almost painfully obvious: he's a Cognitive Shadow, like the Heralds. Unless...
"I'm asking now. How old?" She hones in on the piece of information she wants, but he hasn't yet provided. "One hundred? A thousand? Five thousand?"
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One hundred is the same as one thousand. Both of them are unnatural. Besides, it's not like she's going to be celebrating his birthday any time soon. He sighs, grinding his teeth a little before replying.
"Closer to one hundred than one thousand. The Fracture was 67 years ago now."
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"Yes, it matters."
It matters because it's a data point and she collects data points. It matters because it's something real about him. It matters because the last ageless man she spent this much time was over 10,000 years old (if Wit's own word can be trusted) and those milennia had thoroughly compromised his ability to function person-to-person with a mortal like herself. She'd felt it in every game he played. Every slanted response.
But closer to one hundred? Jasnah nods. She can work with one hundred. Although she doesn't return the favour and tell him why it matters.
Instead, she makes inferences: "You go on the Expeditions. And you survive them."
Storms.
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And sometimes not, when he can't bear it anymore. But he's been a part of more Expeditions than he hasn't been, whether helping or hindering them.
Matter-of-fact: "I join the Expeditions, and I guide them. Immortality is—" A moment of waffling, here. "A curse from the Paintress. I have a vested interest in the Expeditions' success."
He holds her gaze for just a moment, then steps away, creating a little distance. "That's all."
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She recognizes the ways in which he's withdrawing. Jasnah doesn't feel guilty, but she does ease up. Just a little. Now might be a more appropriate moment to file observations rathet than chase them.
Intolerable. Predictable death. She rethinks some of their conversations, and many of her assumptions. In the pit of her stomach, she feels a strange-nauseus desire to admit that he's fascinating. She pries because she wants to pop his soul open and trace its line. It's causes and effects. The only immortals she's known have long since gone mad. Or are Wit. Bastard.
"I see." Calm, again. Less like a scholar finding a rare book. Gently, and with perhaps a rather misapplied attempt at comfort: "You aren't the first...long-lived person I've met."
She doesn't say immortal. In many respects, immortality can't be proven. It's just death thag hasn't yet stuck. The bastard taught her that.
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After all, it's hard to trust someone when he's somehow the only person among you who isn't affected by the annual mass killing. He gets that.
"No?" he asks, worrying his lip. "Me, neither."
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Jasnah has to remind herself (even now) that everything he's saying could yet be false. Not all the Heralds are yet accounted for. What if this was one of them? Addled by his years of torture on Braize. Delusional, creating a whole new world to hold his denial.
No. Ivory would have been able to distinguish a Herald. Oh, she'd like to ask the spren to pop into the Cognitive and give her a better read on Verso's presence there.
"The man whose position you're auditioning for. Oddly enough. He... well, he'd been alive long enough to witness the first founding of our cities."
Her turn to carefully navigate the truth and omit details. She's mentioned her former Wit and she's mentioned her former lover. But she's never drawn a line between the two aloud.
Also oddly enough: "He, too, came from elsewhere."
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"Yeah?" It wouldn't be right to say that Verso perks up, but it is good to hear that Jasnah's familiar with someone else who shares his— affliction. Perhaps to an even greater degree; witnessing the first founding of Rosharan cities must mean he's older than Verso, maybe even older than Esquie.
It's good to hear. And yet, on another level... isn't it odd? It's such a ridiculous coincidence that he might think it isn't a coincidence at all. That there's something inherent to him, something written in his very cells that screams replacement.
That's crazy, of course, so he doesn't say anything about it. Just lets it make him feel kind of like shit.
"You said he was unpopular. What happened to him?"
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Even so, it isn't as if she can tell the whole truth. So Jasnah ponders her answer, not bothering to hide how she considers her next words.
"He left."
After she dumped his ass, sure. But he did indeed leave! That's accurate.
"Being from elsewhere, he had business and priorities that took him away from Roshar. I released him from his service."
Not that it was ever required. Sure, Wit had been her servant. But in many ways he was something beyond the courts of kings and queens. His loyalty had never truly been to her or her world. Although she likes to think he had an uncommon fondness for it.
She exhales through her nose - almost a sigh, steeling herself for something unpleasant.
"One more question. About logistics, or...body mechanics."
She looks across him. Head to toe. Thoughtful. Yes, she wants to know about what (exactly) this immortality means to him. Simple agelessness? Healing? Has he died and returned?
But after his earlier reactions, she intends to ease into any more questions about it.
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There's still a lot of ways you can harm someone who can't die. So, of course, his eyebrows raise at her question, slightly wary. "Body mechanics." Very euphemistic. Voice lowered again, he asks, "You mean you want to know what will happen if you stab me?"
Another cautious glance back at the few sailors milling about on the deck. Two of them are leaned against the railing opposite them, shooting the shit. Another is attempting to clean a mysterious stain. All of them look like people to whom he really, really doesn't want to have to explain why his immortality is perfectly normal and harmless.
Honestly, it's not any of her business, but he finds himself in a rather precarious predicament at the moment, not only stuck at sea with her now but stuck under her rule after, too. He pushes off the railing, taking a few steps away.
"Not a conversation to have in front of company, I think." He doesn't put his foot down about much, but he's putting it down about this. If she wants to know the gory details, she'll have to talk about it with him in private.
As if proving why they absolutely should not be having this discussion here, one of the sailors from across the way calls out, "Lovers' spat?"
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He insists they retire to their small cabin to contunue. And Jasnah almost argues - or else almost dismisses the topic altogether in favour of staying on the deck. But then the sailor calls out about a lover's spat and Jasnah can't quite keep the faint flush off her cheeks. Anger or humiliation or both.
But what does she do when she encounters a challenge? She scales it. She strides into it head-on. She hooks an arm firmly around his elbow, erasing the space between their bodies - as if daring then sailors to still think the lovers are fighting.
"Back to the cabin, then," she directs. Soft in volume but not in tone.
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"Yes, I die. Then I get better."
Close enough to dying, anyway. He's been eaten, bisected, poisoned— it hurts, but it doesn't take. Not permanently.
"It's a real annoyance to die"—extremely unpleasant, actually—"so I try not to."
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Being killed can confound. Jasnah chews on the memoey as she crosses the room, settling to take a seat on their bolted down trunk. It's not a throne, but it might as well be. Jasnah balances the heels of her palms on the trunk lid, leaning back. Her instincts still want to label him a Cognitive Shadow, but as far as she's aware Verso isn't Invested. And mustn't one be highly Invested when they first die in order to persist like that? Well. Not everyone.
Although she doesn't miss his displeasure, she doesn't let it dissuade her.
"You don't like talking about it. Why is that?"
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Flat: "I don't know what you mean. I love talking about my affront-to-nature immortality."
He's not a fan, one can safely presume. With a sigh, he settles down on the desk bench again. He's fairly sure the nausea is returning now.
"As you can imagine, people haven't always taken the information very well." He frowns. "Guess it's hard to trust someone when they're the only one"—almost the only one—"not affected by the Gommage."
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Hmm. Jasnah tracks his movement as he crosses the cabin. Head turning and eyes watching. He reveals more than he means to, she suspects, when he lets slip he's the only one She wonders which parts of him are truest: the musician, carefully teaching piano notes; the charmer, inviting women to dance in storm shelters; the immortal, heated and upset by these revelations.
Jasnah skips straight to the simple, obvious inference. The one he as good as says aloud, she validates: "You've told others before. And it's gone badly."
Quite badly, if his current mood is anything to go by. A different person might try to console Verso. Reassure him that she doesn't see him as an affront to nature. Or that if she doesn't trust him yet, it's got nothing to do with whether or not he can't die. Or that she knows what it feels like to be distrusted in turn when you tell someone something in confidence.
Jasnah isn't a different person. She doesn't enjoy his unhappiness, but she doesn't care to soothe it in some saccharine way either.
"I lied last night. There's another reason I sleep so poorly. Perhaps pedestrian in comparison to staring down the void of immortality," she remembers that word from yes. Void. "But it's a bit more involved than concern for assassination attempts."
Information for information. Vulnerability for vulnerability. It's the only way she knows to make up for whatever discomfort she's caused. If she's upset him by dragging this truth into the light, she'll drag one of her own in to join it.
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Another one of those memories that he doesn't know the true owner of. Maybe it never happened to him, and it's just something she gave him. Something he stole.
Regardless, reassurance isn't necessary. "More involved than an assassination attempt in your bed?" he asks, implicit encouragement to expand. Or is the truth she's willing to share simply that she lied, and nothing more?
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For a long moment — held like a breath — she almost says nothing. Almost lets the half-confession sit there like an ink blot on clean paper. Truth enough.
Her tongue presses against the back of a tooth. A steadying gesture, though she would never name it as such. If she speaks again, it will be more than she has ever offered anyone.
And Verso — Storms! — has shown an inconvenient amount of compassion and humanity. A softness she should not reward.
"I was ill. As a child."
A single, immaculate euphemism. Jasnah straightens, spine lengthening, posture reasserting itself like armour sliding back into place. She corrects herself, like she learned to do after her illness passed.
"Too much time in beds."
She does not say: too much time in restraints, too much time in dark rooms, too much time begging to be believed. Those details gather at the back of her throat like silt. Heavy and unspeakable. She would like — absurdly — to tell him she knows what it is to be treated as something unnatural. To be hidden for the comfort of others.
But she cannot shape the words past the flat, slanted I was ill.
So instead, she gestures with her chin toward the bolted cot, voice returning to its cool, dry equilibrium:
"Soft beds are worse. Perhaps that one will be uncomfortable enough to be tolerable."
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There is someone that he knows who has experienced such ailments, though.
"My sister, the younger one," he says. Alicia. "She was... trapped in a terrible fire. At our house." The one that Verso should have died in. He doesn't know what to do with the fact that Maman spared him yet chose to make Alicia suffer. Face mangled, throat burned so badly that she can no longer speak. If it were anyone else, he'd be disgusted and repulsed that a mother could do that to her own child.
"Her convalescence was— lengthy, and difficult." He can still see her face the day that the bandages first came off, when she'd seen herself in the mirror for the first time. "So I understand. It must have been traumatic."
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i lied, sends this tag in another direction
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a short but very meaningful tag
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my turn for a short but effective tag.
mom said it's my turn
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