recreatable | open post.

You've heard of crabapples, now get ready for crabolives.

That's not a question he knows the answer to off the top of his head. Would he prefer if she stopped? He doesn't spend an awful lot of time ruminating on his preferences in general; it's been a rather pointless endeavor to have things like wants and needs up until very recently. Verso doesn't feel particularly attached to the name Dessendre, doesn't feel like somebody who really belongs to that family. He'd never belonged to the real family, and it's been 25 years now since he truly belonged to the Painted one. He feels the scar across his eye burn at the memory.

"I didn't say that," he says after a second of thought. "But that reminds me—what should I call you?"

He's avoided calling her anything at all, for the most part. Seems like a bit of a minefield. She is a queen, although she isn't technically his queen—although she might soon be his employer, so he probably should show her some level of deference.

"Her Majesty? Mademoiselle Kholin?" A huff of a laugh, wry. "...I'm guessing mon amie is off the table."

He didn't answer. Jasnah exhales through her nose, mildly annoyed. Even if it's a tactic she's employed herself. Or maybe she's mildly annoyed because now she has to actually draw a kind of odd, thoughtful distinction. A boundary around what level of formality and when.

Having just declared her intention to end the monarchy, being constantly referred to by her title simply feels wrong. But she acknowledges that she can't simply let him call her anything in mixed company.

"Your Majesty when you must — in public, in front of others." A wrinkle of her nose. "When it's only us...? Jasnah will do."

Really, she ought to insist on Brightness or Brightlady. But even those terms are antiquated, based on eye colour, and belong to a system meant to be dismantled.

"I think I'll go with Kholin, if it's all the same to you." Tit-for-tat, and all. Doesn't she want to create an egalitarian world? He, too, can refer to her as if they're school bros talking about their conquests.

Then, since she'd seemed interested in him: "Esquie would call you Jasjas."

...This is the face of a woman who has never has a nickname in her life and doesn't intend to start now.

"Absolutely not."

Oh, the FROWN.

"To — to Esquie's candidate." She can't even bring herself to repeat it. "Kholin is fine — but all the more reason to keep it between us. I think you underestimate the amount of Kholins you'll be around when we find our way back to Urithiru."

The deeper Jasnah's frown, the wider his grin. Annoying people is the sixth love language, and it's his. He puts Jasjas away on the shelf, albeit to be used with precision at a later date. It's certainly not his style of endearment, but he can make an exception if it'll get under her skin like that.

But for now, he (once again) lets it go. "Big family, huh?"

He remembers one already. The handsome, sweaty cousin she'd been laughing with in the courtyard.

Jasnah has far kinder things to say about the remaining Kholins. But — actually, they hadn't ever covered the intricate politics at play back at the tower. Made all the more intricate because of the occupation of Alethkar, the dividing line between the throne and the princedom, and the tower itself.

She glances around the room, wondering...right! She crosses the room, pulls a rolled map out of the trunk, and spreads it on the table. Yes, it's filled with her charcoal notations and scribbles on different topics unrelated to the complicated multi-throne conglomerate that is the Kholin family. But the map will at least help this explanation!

With her gloved hand, she gestures for him to join her.

"This is Alethkar. My kingdom." A finger circles the area between the Horneater Peaks and the Unclaimed Hills. Then, with a jab: "With the city of Kholinar as its seat of power. Both the city and the larger kingdom are currently held by the enemy."

She is a queen in exile. That much has already been suggested, hinted, outright said if not explained.

"This," she drags the tip of her finger to the very centre of the continent. Amongst a mountain range, she identifies: "This is Urithiru. Dalinar Kholin is the king of Urithiru. Navani Kholin, his wife, is the queen. Alethi nationals in the tower are — refugees, along with countless others who have fled to its safety."

Jasnah is a queen, yes. But she is not the queen.

"Adolin Kholin, the man you so carelessly assumed was my..." oh, a grimace! "...lover. He's Dalinar's son, but he refused to be the heir. He is the Highprince of the Kholinar princedom, one of the ten princedoms that make up a unified Alethkar. The name is the same, but they're technically two different houses: mine, the royal line. His, the princedom."

...But then her expression softens. How could it not? She likes Adolin, certainly, but she adores Renarin. Renarin reminds her so much of herself, some days.

"And there's Renarin, who would be next in line for the princedom if anything happens to Adolin. Arguably, the sole Kholin whose managed to avoid a title. Apart from Gavinor, I suppose — but he's only four."

Four, and her heir by way of being her brother's son.

She pauses there. Technically, she's only ever defined her own relationship to Adolin (cousin) so it's still a bit murky who she is to all these other people. Buckle up, Verso. Because it only gets more complicated from here.

Edited 2025-12-02 23:07 (UTC)

"...Ah," Verso says, like he understands completely when that certainly isn't the case. Somehow, Jasnah's family tree is more complicated than his own, despite the fact that there's two of nearly every Dessendre. Made worse, probably, by the way she avoids naming who any of them are to her. Kholins, in the abstract—the way a history book might refer to them, not the way a sister or cousin or niece would.

Curious.

"So," he says slowly, leaning over the table and looking at the map. Working this out in his mind.

He taps Kholinar. "Adolin is your cousin, not your boyfriend." Lover. Whatever. Obviously, he jumped to a few too many conclusions. "And Renarin must be his brother." That's how the line of succession works, he's pretty sure.

"Which would make"—his finger slides to Urithiru—"Navani and Dalinar your aunt and uncle." So close!! "And Gavinor is your— brother?"

He gives her a split-second look, blink and you'll miss it, obviously proud of himself for making all of these deductions.

Nod, nod, nod. Yes! He's doing lots of great deduction work. Right up until...

"No — Navani's my mother."

Chew on that for a second. Because she definitely doesn't disagree that Dalinar is her uncle. And as for little Gavinor? Well, everyone kinda forgets little Gavinor.

"Ah," he says again, then chews on that for a moment, staring down at the map.

Huh. His brow furrows. He bites his lip, doing more deductive work. "...And— also your aunt?" He's familiar with this incestuous monarchy thing.

Edited (his frow furrows) 2025-12-02 23:18 (UTC)

"No," she repeats the word. More forceful, this time. Because he shouldn't get the wrong idea! Except...

Well. Except, she kinda is. Isn't she? Ugh. This is Navani's fault for blatantly and openly pursuing Jasnah's favourite uncle. And then having the audacity to marry him!

"My father and Dalinar were brothers."

It's true that when Navani married Gavinor originally, she effectively became Dalinar's sister in the eyes of the Vorin church. But they're not actually related. Just...in-laws. Still, they'd been unable to find an ardent to perform so blasphemous a wedding.

Edited 2025-12-02 23:26 (UTC)

He's got to stop saying, "Oh," but she also needs to stop saying things that could garner no other response. Verso goes through a little face journey, eyebrows raising in surprise, forehead wrinkling (don't tell him that, though; he'd be very upset to hear he looks old) before his brows drop back down, furrowed again as he frowns in thought. So if Navani is her mother, and she's married to Dalinar, who's Jasnah's uncle—

"Is it... common in Alethi culture to share wives?"

Royal polycule???

Her confusion borders on animated. Honestly, she cares so little for whatever drama of the heart her mother underwent two-ish years ago. But in this instance, she's on Navani's side in theory and in principle. Even if she sorely wishes Dalinar had made better choices.

"Decidedly not. The church didn't approve of a widow marrying her dead husband's brother. Even years after his death. Yet another demonstration of its arbitrary, heartless dogma."

Verso's quiet for a moment. Then: "—I'd say oh again, but I'm afraid you'll think that dubious soap seeped through my scalp into my brain."

It might have. Honestly, it was highly questionable as far as soap goes. It did its job, though; his hair is mostly dry now save for the still-damp roots, and it's decidedly cleaner than it was before. Still a little bit of a mess, but give him a break—he's without his hair products.

"That must have been... complicated for you."

Her father dying, cold as he might have been, and then her mother marrying her uncle. Verso's family is a disaster, but at least he'd never once had to worry about Maman marrying anyone other than Renoir. Because she designed him to be her perfect husband, he thinks uncharitably, before course-correcting with because she loved him.

"I'm not sure how I would feel in those circumstances."

...It does sound a little too ridiculous now that she's laid it out aloud. The tension in Jasnah's shoulders eases, minutely, with a wry chuckle. But! Still a chuckle.

"It was hardly ideal, no."

Jasnah can't understand it. She doesn't know why after a miserable first marriage, her mother gambled on a second. But she can't deny that now Navani is...well, perhaps not happier. But more resplendently herself. Dalinar doesn't belittle her, and encourages her artifabrian pursuits, and includes her in councils and war rooms. He worships her. It's — it's a good match, she thinks, begrudgingly. Honest and trusting.

He'll meet them all when they return, provided he decides to become a member of her court-in-exile. The Queen's Wit would never be far from those same council rooms.

Brusquely, she turns back to the map. It's an easy way to shove off from this topic, touching Kharbranth and tracing a line along Longbrow's Straits towards Theylen City.

"We're here, by the way."

Verso watches her finger glide down the strait on the map, just as decisive as her words. Another glib comment, he notes, after admitting something personal. He could press, ask what did your mother tell you? or how do you feel about it now? He's curious; it's a family dynamic he can't quite wrap his head around. It's like— like if he put the moves on Simon after Clea disappeared.

But he doesn't ask, doesn't push. If she wants to move on, they can.

He slides his own finger over to Thaylen City, aware of the inches between their hands. It would be a lie to say he doesn't hope that their fingers accidentally brush when she moves.

"Do you like it in Thaylenah?"

Although it doesn't cause a collision with his fingers, Jasnah does briefly drop all of hers onto the map and drums with a jaunty, staccato rhythm.

"Yes, although I've not spent as much time there as I might want to."

— And the last time was the Battle of Theylan Field. The city has done what its could to recover, since then. Mixed results.

"There's a pastry shop," she raises her eyes from the map and meets Verso's. "I try and make a point to visit it when I'm in the city. If I can."

Her fingers thump against the map, and Verso follows up by plunking out shave and a haircut, two bits with his own index before withdrawing his hand from the map entirely and turning to lean his hip against the edge of the table.

"Yeah?" He might sound a little bit skeptical. It's hard to imagine Jasnah being the sort of person who indulges in precious little petit fours or delicate tarts. But— "I miss pastries. I used to have this apartment right above the patisserie."

Again, seven decades ago.

"Fresh croissants every morning, and the whole block smelled like vanilla."

Might be a bit easier to imagine it when they reach the city, navigate to the shop in question, and Verso realizes the pot-bellied baker in his sixties is secretly a colleague of Jasnah's who masquerades as a woman in his published work. Jochi's cheese-and-onion swirls pair perfectly with an afternoon of chatting about legendary accounts of the Siah Aimians without the intermediary of a spanreed between them.

But! We're getting ahead of ourselves.

"Was this before, after, or during your time at the academy?"

Did you think she forgot about that? Nope!

Of course there are more questions. Luckily, this one doesn't offend in the slightest. All Lumièrans go to school; at least, they did when Verso was a child. (Was he ever a child, or are his memories of childhood nothing more than an appropriate backstory? He's spent ample time ruminating on it, and no answer has proved satisfactory.) Things sound different nowadays, so unlike the idyllic Lumière in which he spent his time.

He laughs. "No, this was during my time at the conservatory." Which he just assumes she'll understand was postsecondary education after the academy, because of course she will. That's how school works.

With an expectant look, he asks, "Did you want to get something to write all of this down?"

Ignorant of the way in which her curiosity again and again and again scratches at the superficial gilded silver of his personal history, Jasnah leans most of her weight on the palm of her hand — pressing it down like an anchor against the map, against the table.

And it happens again. Jasnah seems to subtly thrive under the precise correction of her assumption. Like getting it wrong about the academy is worth it if it means chaining on an education about something else. Something new. The conservatory. Her mouth opens, she's about to ask directly what it is, and then...

Did you want to get something to write this all down?

Her eyes snap to the trunk. Where she's stowed her notebooks — at least, the ones she'd taken with her on their original trip to Kharbranth. Her Verso notebook is back in Urithiru. But she could reorganize the pages later and—

"...Yes."

Simple. Honest and (maybe??) trusting.

Oh. Merde. There's an almost hopeful quality to that yes; he can't say he was being sarcastic now. No, he has no choice but to allow her to take notes like this is a lecture at, well, the academy.

He gestures to the wooden trunk. "...Vas-y, ma étudiante."

And, once she's started gathering her things (but before she's actually even opened the notebook), he says, "The academy is for children. I'm sure you have something like it—it's compulsory to earn an education until you reach adulthood, at which point you would attend postsecondary education or join the workforce."

All said like this is just how it is. He has little concept of how privileged this life is.

"I took the former path, rather than the latter." Of course. He was the 1%.

Whatever he said, his gesture is more than communicative enough for her to straighten from the table and — breezing by Verso — go digging in the trunk. One notebook, originally earmarked for notes on dawncity cymatics. One thin travel pencil, a little less reliable than pen and ink but infinitely more portable.

Returning, she pushes the map aside and takes a seat. Naturally, this takes her back into his sphere of immediate influence — sitting just inches off from where he's leaning against the desk.

Jasnah rifles the page open, starts with a scribbled not to herself roughly approximating the phonemes he'd said once again in a language she can't speak — while she assumes some quirk of Connection allows him to understand hers — before committing in full to the topic at hand.

"...Compulsory? How is it enforced?"

Huh.

"—I don't know," he says after a moment, because he's never had to think about it before. No one in Lumière had ever really seemed to have an issue with going to school. Maybe a few truants here and there, but nothing truly serious. After all, Lumière had been near-perfect.

"It just is." Not a great explanation, he knows, so he adds, "It's the law, but I'm not sure anyone ever tried to fight it."

Why would they? It's not like there was ever anything else to do. Children hadn't needed to drop out to join the workforce then, not like now.

"At least, not when I was around. Things may be... different now." A conceding tilt of the head. "From what I understand, everyone in Lumière is apprenticed at a young age so that the trades can live on after their masters are Gommaged. And instead of university, there's an Expeditioner Academy to attend."

Ah.

Jasnah flips to a second, blank page — seemingly employing a system where categorial headers organize different threads across similar-but-not-quite topics. Here, she loosely marks a headline with something akin to gommage / socioeconomic consequences. She jots down a thought or two.

"Here, instruction happens in the home. Up to a certain age. Then, a young girl might apply for a wardship with an established scholar. Social compulsion rather than legal. By contrast, your system sounds positively...Azish."

Complimentary.

Her words function almost like an annotation. As if Verso was a fresh, fascinating text and she was writing in him her marginalia. A brief, comparative note.

"You mentioned a conservatory. How is it different to the academy? One of those...postsecondary spaces, I take it."

Verso has no fucking idea what Azish means—a comparison to another country he isn't yet familiar with? A slang term? Who knows!—but it sounds positive, so he assumes it's a good thing. So far, all of this is a good thing. He can't deny that he enjoys having all of her attention focused solely on him, even if it's only because he's currently acting as an information dispenser. It makes him feel... useful. He likes to feel useful. Like maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can counteract the sin of his existence.

"Postsecondary, yes," he says, encouraging, teacherly in an entirely different way from Jasnah. He might as well be sticking a gold star sticker on her forehead. You figured out how to use 'postsecondary' from context clues! A+!

Now, the conservatory is a little bit more personal, but it's worth mentioning if it keeps Jasnah looking so enthralled with him and what he has to say. "The conservatory is for the performing arts. Music, primarily." So, of course, he'd studied piano. After a second of thought, he deflates a little. "I'm sure it's not around anymore."

There's no reason to dedicate your life to the perfection of an instrument when death is constantly looming. It would have to feel terribly frivolous compared to more practical pursuits.

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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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