recreatable | open post.

Verso feels strangely as if he's being chided for stealing from the cookie jar.

"I didn't prevaricate," he says, sounding a little petulant, the echo of a little boy who's been scolded for dishonesty too many times and who has an excuse for everything. Technically, he's right. He didn't prevaricate about this, specifically. It's just everything else in his life that he's prevaricated about, always using twenty words to say nothing when he could use one and say everything.

He has enough sense to look guilty when he says, "I... omitted." But the next moment he follows it up with, "And so did you."

Is it really fair for her to reprimand him when she admitted to doing the same? On a smaller level, yes, but the topics of both of their lies had the same amount of relevancy. Perhaps hers even had more, given the situation they're in. He has no intention of dying and coming back to life any time soon, whereas she'll have no choice but to sleep eventually.

"But I'm sorry if I broke your trust." If one can break something that probably wasn't there to begin with.

Interesting. Perhaps now isn't the right time to suggest aloud that she expects better from someone who has outlived the mortal experience. But the way his indignation filters to the surface! Again...interesting. More human than folklore. A quality that is paradoxically appreciated and annoying at the same time.

Jasnah saves her breath and doesn't defy his assertion that he only omitted. She disagrees naturally, but finds the potential argument boring before it even begins.

"Don't apologize." She retreats back to the trunk, sitting against. "Do better."

Journey before destination. The words of her oath worm their way up from her heart. She can't expect of others what she doesn't expect of herself. Life before death. Strength before weakness.

"And I'll do better, too."

Truthfully, he'd rather just apologize, but he relents with an acknowledging hum.

"There's nothing relevant left that I haven't told you." Nothing relevant. He does believe that. She doesn't need to know everything else; he can sit around and play piano for her and answer questions about Gestrals without it.

But that's the end of that— "So." He places his hands on his knees, leaning forward a bit, no sign of the man who'd just been uncomfortable and irritated. "You spoke to the sailors, like you wanted. What do you think?"

His mercurial change in attitude troubles her less than his petulance did. Perhaps because compartmentalization is a fluent language for her. Fluent enough to understand hoe much heavy lifting the word relevant is doing in that sentence. Nothing relevant. Well. She supposes thaga another crime they've committed together.

Jasnah undoes and then redoes her braid. The earlier whip of the salt air had pulled loose some strands, and fixing his appearance reminded her of her own. And it's something to do with her hands while she answers.

"Hm. Nothing suspicious about the sailors. Although their stories! Fascinating." Then, more to herself: "Particularly the one about the santhid."

Santhids remind her of Shallan. And thinking of Shallan, she hopes the girl truly did make it out of Kharbranth. If she had her spanreeds on her, she could write to Urithiru. Unfortunately, they were all left behind in the palace suite. Frustrating. Hopefully her contacts will maintain protocol and won't correspond with anyone who doesn't know her pass-phrases.

"Something about the captain bothers me." She frowns. "The wrong kind of nosy for his profession. I don't recall seeing him in Urithiru, but if he recognized me..."

Jasnah trails off. She may have omitted the full reason for her insomnia, but that doesn't mean the paranoia wasn't still real.

"Well," Verso says with a shrug, "he's a traveler. Maybe he spent some time in Urithiru."

It's probably more likely than not, actually, if he's the type of man who's looking to sail around the world. Of course, that doesn't seem like it'll assuage Jasnah's concerns.

"And just because he might have recognized you doesn't necessarily mean anything." It could mean nothing at all! Maybe he really is just an innocent sailor who happened to have seen Jasnah once, and now her face has jogged his memory. Not the most helpful when assuaging fears, though, he knows.

"...But if it does mean something"—if she really is worried about a betrayal and assassination attempt—"then it doesn't matter. He won't be able to do anything to you if you aren't alone."

Logic feels useless against the paranoia threading through her thoughts — but Jasnah forces it through anyway. She sits in silence and recites her own private litany of rational explanations: a case of mistaken identity; a glimpse of some outdated sketch; or, just as likely, the well-intentioned fumbling of a widower trying to flatter a stranger.

A few measured heartbeats, and the sharpest edge of her fear dulls. The pedal note remains — but the pedal note is always there.

Her attention returns fully when Verso suggests — implicitly, not explicitly — that she is safe because he is here. An odd pivot. He swings from frustration to...not loyalty, no. Something softer. Stranger. Chivalry? She cannot categorize it neatly, and that alone unsettles her.

Carefully, she interjects: "The Queen's Wit is not a martial position. If something were to happen, no one will expect you to serve as a bodyguard."

It's not dismissal. Just truth. And though she wouldn't say so, she doesn't hate the idea of a shield that is difficult — perhaps impossible — to kill. She likes it very much.

But expectation is different from desire, and she will not confuse the two.

"Lucky that I'm not your jester yet, then."

They haven't even had the job interview yet! It's quite silly that she somehow takes umbrage against being protected because it isn't expected. Like the only reason a person could ever have an interest in someone else's safety is because they're getting paid for it, because they have no other choice.

"I'm a husband traveling to Thaylenah with his wife, and I would be rather remiss if I let anything happen to her."

And if his readiness to offer protection in any way stems from the fact that he didn't protect the person who mattered most when it mattered most— mind your business.

Joke's on him! It's always, perpetually, already a job interview. In one way or another, it's been a job interview even before the job was offered. Maybe she simply didn't know the job yet, but he's always been under scrutiny. Always been under evaluation for whether she did or didn't want to keep his company. It's difficult to discern, but the extent to which she's gone out of her way to spend time with him has been...notable. Long before she knew he couldn't be killed.

There's something about him she likes. Appreciates. A handful of somethings, maybe. But telling him so would qualify for a level of honesty she's got no interest in reaching. Even if she's told him she'd do better.

...But then he opens his mouth and suddenly she's questioning her appreciation.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you." Her eyes narrow on him. "The fiction. The performance."

The bits that bookend the awkward moments where she forces the truth out of him.

Edited 2025-11-25 22:28 (UTC)

That's rather accusatory. And also true, which is less important.

Verso laughs softly, amused and exasperated at the same time. "One of us has to." It would be so uncomfortable, wouldn't it, if they both hated it? Just like it would be boring if they both enjoyed it. The push-and-pull is what makes it fun, and he's more than willing to do his part.

He'd enjoy it regardless, though. With a slight shrug: "I like being someone else." Beats being himself any day.

She wonders how he hears his own words. In Jasnah's ears, it sounds an awful lot like I don't like being myself. And perhaps she's reading too deeply into it, but considering what had happened with Shallan...? An abundance of caution is merited.

Oh. Ivory whispers something in her ear. It might be imperceptible to most, but with enough time and familiarity it could become telling when her chin tilts just so and she suppresses a fond chuckle. Like answering a joke told only to her.

Immediately after, she covers it with a business-like announcement: "Then you should be thrilled that I believe we should continue the ruse into Theylenah. Queen Fen is an ally, but I'd prefer one of my own safehouses. We'll find a spanreed and get in contact with Urithiru."

"That'll be days from now," he points out. "You might decide you want a divorce before then."

There are probably already rumors of their dissolving marriage, given how the sailors just witnessed them speaking. Oh, well—a tenuous marriage is still a cover story. Besides, they've got a band-aid baby on the way to fix all of their relationship problems.

What will happen in Thaylenah seems more a conversation to have in Thaylenah. As it stands, he doesn't even know what it looks like, so it's difficult to really wrap his head around any plans they might have. Instead, he focuses on the here and now:

"If you're not comfortable sharing a meal with the captain, I can bring it back to the cabin. Tell him you've come down with..." Hm. "Evening sickness."

A familiar wrinkle of her nose — clear evidence of what she thinks of his suggestion. Yet beneath the disdain, a thread of something workable presents itself. Jasnah lifts a single finger, the gesture neat and declarative.

"Tell him the sea rations aren't sweet enough."

Verso might have noticed the custom back in Urithiru: men's food was spiced, women's food sweetened. Jasnah has no particular fondness for the syrupy womencs dishes — but as an excuse for a pregnant traveler with delicate tastes? It will serve perfectly.

She considers, briefly, the image of Verso at the mess table alone — no way for her to nudge his knee under the bench, no subtle corrections to keep him from creative embellishment.

Her expression dips toward something dangerously close to wry. "And do try not to expand our household again tonight," she adds. "One fictitious child is quite sufficient."

"How about a fictitious dog?" he asks, lighthearted, although the feedback is noted. (He would very much enjoy having a fictitious dog, though. Do they have dogs in Urithiru? He makes a mental note to look into that later.)

"I do think Geneviève could use a brother," he teases, "but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

Joking!!! He is joking. Although he does think it's rather cruel to condemn anyone to the life of an only child.

He absconds before she can yell at him, making a quick beeline to evening mess. The conversation he holds with Torreth during is mostly one-sided, listening to him tell stories of his naval adventures, although the captain does mention that he's heard from the crew that Verso is experiencing marital troubles, to which he offers some extremely unasked for advice. When Torreth begins to explain how women appreciate a man who can show dominance, Verso tunes out. If he showed dominance to Jasnah, she might shove him overboard.

He excuses himself when he can, claiming he's going to finish his meal in the cabin. He raps his knuckles against the door a few times, saying, "It's me," so as not to frighten her with his return. When he enters, he places a bowl of mysterious sludge on the desk. Stew, of some sort. He's not really sure. It's his leftover portion, barely touched. Jasnah could probably use it more, considering she can actually starve.

"It's a bit cold, but that might actually enhance the flavor."

Jasnah is halfway through asking the fatal question (what, precisely, is a dog and how would it strengthen our cover story?) when Verso derails her with the suggestion of a little son to pair with their fictional daughter.

She does not yell. But she does call after him with several choice, uncharacteristically coarse directives on how he might accomplish such a feat alone, should he feel so inclined. Let the sailors make of that what they will.

Once he's gone, the silence is...welcome. Necessary. Jasnah is not constructed for prolonged, unbroken company. After last night and today, it feels as though her thoughts require dusting. Her mind in need of being aired out. She attempts to resume her work on the map, but her own notations look like someone else's half-coded handwriting.

With a quiet, resigned exhale, she extracts the stolen copy of An Accountability of Virtue from the trunk and performs the scholarly equivalent of cleaning out a junk drawer: marginalia, critique, underlines, and a growing constellation of irritation and curiosity across the page.

Hours later, the soft knock at the door pulls her from chapter fifteen. She turns the book over, spine to the ceiling, and stretches. A full-body lengthening, fingers interlaced and palms reaching upward until her spine rewards her with a satisfying pop.

She's still stretching when he places the bowl down. Jasnah regards him between the frame of her locked elbows — cool, appraising, faintly surprised. He continues to be thoughtful in ways that catch her off guard. Perhaps the bar is low. Perhaps she simply doesn't allow people near enough, long enough, to notice.

"Thank you," she says. Precise and genuine.

A beat later, her posture relaxes and she crosses an arm on the desk, poking at the stew.

"How was the mess?" A slight tilt of her head. "What did our captain and his sailors decide we are today?"

"On the rocks, to be sure," he says with a laugh, leaning his hip against the desk. "Don't worry. I assured them that scowl is simply your resting expression."

He absolutely does not mention Torreth's advice that he man up and show her who's boss. There's definitely a boss here, but it certainly isn't him.

Leaning over into Jasnah's space just slightly—enough to maybe be a little annoying, but not truly offensive—he taps a fingernail on the spine of the book, mouth quirked in amusement. "Rereading? You don't have to shove it in my face." Yes, he's jealous. That should be him reading!!

As if summoned by the mere suggestion of it, she scowls. The expression flickers across her features like a reflexive rebuke, here and gone in the span of a heartbeat.

But, moving on! She inhales a thin breath of Stormlight — siphoning some from a goblet of spheres on the desk. Her eyes glow briefly as she soulcasts the stew, stripping it into its safest constituent elements before allowing it to be food again. She never alters its taste or structure; she simply removes dangers, should dangers be present.

The glow fades. She tries a spoonful. Hunger hits her with embarrassing immediacy. Her body rouses like a machine restarting after too many hours out of use, coaxing her toward a second mouthful. The stew leaves a pleasant burn at the back of her tongue. Not sweet at all.

(For a moment, her mind wanders. If Verso cannot die...what would poison do to him? Would he feel it? Notice it? Recover instantly? Could an immortal serve as a royal taster without ethical complication? Would he sulk if she asked? It would be far more efficient than investing Stormlight in every meal...)

Another spoonful. Enough. She returns her attention to him.

"Annotating," she corrects coolly when he comments on the book. As if that single word constitutes a meaningful distinction from reading or rereading.

"Some people meditate. I annotate." Even a ludicrous text like this one steadies her mind when she is allowed to dissect it.

Her right hand drifts to the book's spine — settling there, inches from his. A subtle barrier. A quiet claim. A sign that she will not permit him to flip the pages back toward her marginalia.

Verso regards whatever the hell Jasnah does to the stew with a sort of sure, everything is already so weird anyway attitude. Maybe she is testing it for poisons, he thinks, or maybe she's heating it up, or seasoning it. After all, she'd managed to change the taste of his wine with a flick of her hand.

Speaking of hands, he notes that almost protective one laid over the spine of the book. He squints.

"That is my copy, if you recall."

Sort of. He maybe kind of accidentally stole it? But it's his all the same.

"Your copy," she echoes.

Uh oh. Is this gonna be athing? This is totally going to be a thing.

"And here I was, thinking this book belongs rightfully to the Palaneaum of Kharbranth."

Luckily, Verso has plenty of experience with things. He grew up with two sisters, with whom he often argued for the sole sake of arguing. With his own hand pressed against the spine, he shoots Jasnah a pointed look.

"Well, I can't give it back now that you've written in it."

She scoots forward in her chair, adding a second finger to the books spine.

"It wouldn't be the first copy made dearer by the addition of my undertext," Jasnah counters. "Don't discount the value of my critical contributions."

Okay, ego.

OKAY, EGO!!! Verso should not be endeared by this, but he still is. It's ridiculous that she thinks her literary criticism will somehow make anyone enjoy this risqué novel any more, but it's also sort of charming. Ah, merde. He's let it happen again. Let himself become unwisely fond of someone.

There will be time to beat himself up about that later, though. For now:

"Okay, Mademoiselle Auteure." His tone is dry but not unkind. "Then I humbly request that you allow me to be the first reader of it."

Jasnah settles stubbornly between this rock and a hard place. Silent, she's pathing her way through the most obvious next and next-next and next-next-next steps of this argument.

"You shouldn't be reading at all," she hisses.

But she knows how fragile her position is. He's been cautioned not to be caught reading. In their locked cabin, with Ivory on silent watch, who will rightly catch him?

Her mouth twists into a frown.

"One chapter."

It's not a negotiation.

"Oh, of course," he says agreeably, like obviously that's reasonable. Meanwhile, he's plotting how to push his luck already. Once he shows her how fast of a reader he is, she'll have no choice but to allow him another chapter. And another...

Look, it gets boring here on this ship. Especially once Jasnah starts ignoring him in favor of work.

Free hand on his heart: "I wouldn't dream of more than one." Hehe. "But since I'm sticking to just one, you'll have to tell me which chapter has the best annotations."

...Best? Define best! Jasnah almost opens her mouth to demand that he do exactly that, but ultimately she knows better than to put the power of definition into anyone else's hands.

Stiffly, she pries his fingers off the book's spine. A silly, mirrored gesture to how he'd pried her hand off his knee at breakfast. Then, clearing her throat, she scoops the book up off the table and leafs through its pages.

Here, she went on a screed about neglected tertiary characters. There, she questioned the appeal of watching a man train sweatily at the duelling grounds. And on yet another page...actually, she quickly snatches up her pen and crosses put one particular piece of commentary with such conviction that it tears the paper.

Finally, she settles on something. Splaying the book open, she hands it to him. The chapter is infamous. Half-whispered among ardents, axehound-eared by bored lighteyed girls. The scene involves Wema and Brightlord Sterling, trapped together in a narrow tapestry-lined stairwell during a highstorm, pressed too tightly against one another to maintain propriety. The author wastes no time. Breathless glances, trembling hands, and the entire catalogue of Alethi-sanctioned impropriety.

Along the margin, Jasnah's annotations carve their own counter-narrative.

When Wema shivers as Sterling steps close — her body trembled like a leaf in the storm's early breath — Jasnah's neat script slices the line:

This degree of trembling suggests a mineral deficiency, not romance. Someone give the woman salt.

Half a page later, Wema's safehand glove comes off — each button described with the reverence of a holy rite. Sterling catches her bare wrist, lifting it toward his lips.

Jasnah's pen digs slightly into the paper: The perennial fixation on the safehand remains unimaginative. Authors treat it like a hinge between chastity and oblivion. Predictable.

But then Sterling bends to kiss the inside of Wema's exposed wrist. The prose turns molten, all devouring hunger and shuddering devotion. Then, written neatly:

...I will concede the gesture holds power. The wrist is vulnerable. Symbolism well-chosen, even if the execution is overwrought.

When Wema breathes, If we are discovered, I shall be ruined, the entire margin is overtaken by irritated script that grows sharper with each line:

Again with 'ruin.' Tiresome. The idea that a woman's worth is undone by desire insults logic. Civilization does not collapse because a woman does or does not enjoy touch

When Sterling presses closer, bracing an arm beside her head and crowding her against the embellished tapestry of the Sunmaker's victory, and next to a description of his smoldering gaze and heroic bearing, she adds briskly:

Mediocre man, dramatic stance. Still mediocre. Underlined twice.

Yet when the writing quiets — when Sterling touches his forehead to Wema's, steadying her rather than overwhelming her — Jasnah places a small, discreet mark.

In smaller script: This is believable. A gesture of reassurance rather than spectacle.

And when Wema, breath hitching, raises her bare safehand to his cheek — terrified of discovery, yet offering trust — the margin bears only: ...effective. The trust lands.

The line He held her unhidden hand as though guarding a secret is underlined.

On the corner of the chapter's final page: Alethi fiction reveals its neuroses plainly. All is honour, impropriety, inheritance. It fears desire because desire cannot be legislated.

...And while Verso reads, Jasnah provides a stunning performance of being unbothered, finishing her cold stew.

Edited 2025-11-26 20:47 (UTC)

Verso reads more slowly than usual, partially because he quickly finds that reading on the sea makes him feel a little ill again and partially because of Jasnah's notes. It's a little embarrassing, honestly— he'll read a passage and find the prose exciting and romantic, and then Jasnah's neat script will be there to tell him all of the reasons that he's wrong.

He gets the feeling that the hand part of it all is meant to be a bit more titillating than it is, especially judging by her harsh critique of it; it's not that he's unenthused by it—as a musician, he's of course intimately interested in hands and fingers, the deft movement of them on instruments and... other things—but there's no real sense of taboo there, nothing to make it seem so wrong but so right the way the narrative attempts to.

—Briefly, he wonders if it was inappropriate for him to have touched her hand this morning, even while gloved. A flick of his eyes upward, watching her for a moment, before they turn back down to the page. She would have scolded him for it if it was, surely.

When he reaches the end, he has no idea what to say. He certainly has no idea why she chose this chapter for him to read. Is it some sort of test that he doesn't know the answer to? He worries his lower lip, rereading her final thoughts.

"That's, uh, a very perceptive point. About desire." He really has no clue if he should speak any further on that particular topic. If he avoids it completely, she might find him prudish and childish. If he speaks on it too much, she might think him uncouth and licentious.

So, instead, he quickly turns it around on her. "You didn't seem to find the scene very exciting."

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