"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.
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?"
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.
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.
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?"
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—
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.
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.
"—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."
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.
Wow, Verso! He just spent the better part of the last however-long-it-took to explain the Kholin family tree above a map with a whole kingdom labeled Azir. You didn't figure out how to use Azish from context clues! F!
Her chin tips. She examines his morose contemplation, leaps easily to the conclusion of its source, and counters: "Hard to say. Music, songs...they are the cultural touchstones that survives hardship and devastation when others don't."
To be clear, Jasnah isn't trying to be comforting. Merely accurate. But she's not not trying to be comforting, either. Admittedly, the litmus test to understand the difference is kinda obscure.
"I'd thought it a — hobby, I suppose." Hmm. She doesn't say I'm sorry, but she does sound a little...rueful. "I didn't realize it was more like a vocation."
Verso grins. "Oh, so you didn't realize that I had crowds of adoring fans."
Well. He had crowds. Whether they were filled with adoring fans is questionable, but it hadn't been difficult to draw an audience for his performances. He realizes now that it might have had less to do with the music lovers of Lumière appreciating his talent and more to do with the fact that Aline wanted to keep him happy.
All the same, he jokes, "Please, Monsieur Pianiste, may I have your autograph?"
He jokes. She can see, hear, intuit that he jokes. All the same, something fundamental shifts in the way she considers Verso and his piano. It isn't the implication of fame or fawning that does it, but rather...rather, the bones-deep understanding that what she'd mistaken for a pastime or skill must have felt more like a calling. After all, Jasnah isn't a historian merely because she enjoys learning about the past (although she does!) but rather there is an inexorable pull. A hunger, even.
Tap, tap, tap goes the pencil lead on the edge of her notebook. She hasn't scribbled anything since an empty header for post-secondary institutions. She's a little stuck on asking herself whether she prefers him grinning or grousing. Both of which, she realizes, she prefers to when he's insincere. Avoidant. Evasive.
Smoothly, before her brain catches up to her wrist, Jasnah turns her notebook to face Verso. She tilts the pencil towards him, like a challenge. Her mouth is a composed line. Her eyes, though! Her eyes are fixed and inquisitive.
Please, Monsieur Pianist, may I have your autograph?
A flicker of confusion crosses his face for just a moment as he tries to determine what Jasnah is suggesting. Is she trying to show him something she's written down, or is she asking him to start taking notes instead? Then— his eyes drift to the offered pencil, then the expanse of paper left blank. Slowly, it dawns on him, and that grin of his widens into something crooked and boyish.
"Anything for a fan," he quips as he reaches for the pencil, carefully plucking it from between her fingers. It's been ages since he's signed his name, and he briefly worries that he's forgotten cursive entirely, but once he puts lead to paper it all comes back. With a flourish, he signs his name: Verso Dessendre, with skilled—if rusty—penmanship.
It's the first autograph he's ever signed, in case that wasn't clear.
He flips the pencil around, the point facing him as he offers it back to her. "Sixty-seven years ago, that might have been worth something."
Slowly, thoughtfully, she reclaims the pencil from his temporary custody. It's agonizing not to snatch it, flip the page, and record this more precise accounting of years. Sixty-seven. But she doesn't...why? Hard to say. Maybe it was the way his smile changed, and the mystery behind it. Or maybe it's just that even now, despite what she's seen in nations outside Vorin influence, there's something thrilling and unsettling about watching a man write anything. Even just his own name. In his own script — something she can't read, but sorely sorely wants to.
Jasnah's too caught up in that thought process to care or suspect or wonder whether it's his first autograph or his five-hundred-and-first. It was never about the autograph.
"It's so...coiled." She settles on an adjective after considering and dismissing half-a-dozen. Tangled, looped, curling, turning! So different from women's script.
"Yeah, it's a... loop-forward name," he says, for lack of anything else to say about that. Not really sure if the description of 'coiled' is good, bad, or neutral. He'll truck on anyway.
Having entered her space to sign his name in the notebook, he leans back again, her personal bubble restored. "But you're right. It was more of a profession." Although even that doesn't feel like quite the right way to describe it. Piano was the only thing he could ever imagine doing. He hadn't had it in himself to do anything else. With a quick scrunch of his nose, he adds, "My parents weren't happy about that."
A squabble over his chosen profession is hardly the most pertinent confrontation he's had with his parents, but it's a safer one to share. Something so that he can say hey, look, I fight with my parents too—we have so much in common.
— Notably, his incursion into her personal bubble is met with far, far less hostility when it doesn't come as a surprise. When it's anticipated. Her chin lifts; she watches him lean back. She files away the term loop-forward name as though it's some genuine taxonomical category of names from his world.
When her attention drifts back to the page, to the name, she half-considers mimicking the shapes in the space below. Something to practice later, alone, in concentration. For now, she gingerly turns the page. Protecting the artifact.
"I thought yours was a family of artists."
She offered, curious about what was so disappointing about a pianist. Maybe it's not considered a terribly sophisticated instrument, like how Alethi convention tends to look down on drums. Unfarily, for what it's worth.
She's not entirely wrong, though. They are a family of artists, but the medium of art is important, too. Sure, it's fine to dabble in other forms of art—Clea had her sculpture, her harp, her ballet; Alicia had an interest in writing; Verso had poetry and piano. It's always been expected, though, that painting would come first.
"Painters." Painters with a capital P, in fact, although he hadn't always been aware of that fact. Maman had only bothered to give him the painting talents of his predecessor, not the Painting ones. He can depict nearly anything with oil paint and brush, but he can't magically Paint a new world of his own, something you can walk into and live in instead of just look at.
"You'd be surprised how important the distinction."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mom said it's my turn
Huh. His brow furrows. He bites his lip, doing more deductive work. "...And— also your aunt?" He's familiar with this incestuous monarchy thing.
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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.
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"Is it... common in Alethi culture to share wives?"
Royal polycule???
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"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."
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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."
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"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."
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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?"
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"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."
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"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."
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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!
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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?"
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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.
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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%.
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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.
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"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."
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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."
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"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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Her chin tips. She examines his morose contemplation, leaps easily to the conclusion of its source, and counters: "Hard to say. Music, songs...they are the cultural touchstones that survives hardship and devastation when others don't."
To be clear, Jasnah isn't trying to be comforting. Merely accurate. But she's not not trying to be comforting, either. Admittedly, the litmus test to understand the difference is kinda obscure.
"I'd thought it a — hobby, I suppose." Hmm. She doesn't say I'm sorry, but she does sound a little...rueful. "I didn't realize it was more like a vocation."
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Well. He had crowds. Whether they were filled with adoring fans is questionable, but it hadn't been difficult to draw an audience for his performances. He realizes now that it might have had less to do with the music lovers of Lumière appreciating his talent and more to do with the fact that Aline wanted to keep him happy.
All the same, he jokes, "Please, Monsieur Pianiste, may I have your autograph?"
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Tap, tap, tap goes the pencil lead on the edge of her notebook. She hasn't scribbled anything since an empty header for post-secondary institutions. She's a little stuck on asking herself whether she prefers him grinning or grousing. Both of which, she realizes, she prefers to when he's insincere. Avoidant. Evasive.
Smoothly, before her brain catches up to her wrist, Jasnah turns her notebook to face Verso. She tilts the pencil towards him, like a challenge. Her mouth is a composed line. Her eyes, though! Her eyes are fixed and inquisitive.
Please, Monsieur Pianist, may I have your autograph?
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"Anything for a fan," he quips as he reaches for the pencil, carefully plucking it from between her fingers. It's been ages since he's signed his name, and he briefly worries that he's forgotten cursive entirely, but once he puts lead to paper it all comes back. With a flourish, he signs his name: Verso Dessendre, with skilled—if rusty—penmanship.
It's the first autograph he's ever signed, in case that wasn't clear.
He flips the pencil around, the point facing him as he offers it back to her. "Sixty-seven years ago, that might have been worth something."
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Jasnah's too caught up in that thought process to care or suspect or wonder whether it's his first autograph or his five-hundred-and-first. It was never about the autograph.
"It's so...coiled." She settles on an adjective after considering and dismissing half-a-dozen. Tangled, looped, curling, turning! So different from women's script.
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Having entered her space to sign his name in the notebook, he leans back again, her personal bubble restored. "But you're right. It was more of a profession." Although even that doesn't feel like quite the right way to describe it. Piano was the only thing he could ever imagine doing. He hadn't had it in himself to do anything else. With a quick scrunch of his nose, he adds, "My parents weren't happy about that."
A squabble over his chosen profession is hardly the most pertinent confrontation he's had with his parents, but it's a safer one to share. Something so that he can say hey, look, I fight with my parents too—we have so much in common.
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When her attention drifts back to the page, to the name, she half-considers mimicking the shapes in the space below. Something to practice later, alone, in concentration. For now, she gingerly turns the page. Protecting the artifact.
"I thought yours was a family of artists."
She offered, curious about what was so disappointing about a pianist. Maybe it's not considered a terribly sophisticated instrument, like how Alethi convention tends to look down on drums. Unfarily, for what it's worth.
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She's not entirely wrong, though. They are a family of artists, but the medium of art is important, too. Sure, it's fine to dabble in other forms of art—Clea had her sculpture, her harp, her ballet; Alicia had an interest in writing; Verso had poetry and piano. It's always been expected, though, that painting would come first.
"Painters." Painters with a capital P, in fact, although he hadn't always been aware of that fact. Maman had only bothered to give him the painting talents of his predecessor, not the Painting ones. He can depict nearly anything with oil paint and brush, but he can't magically Paint a new world of his own, something you can walk into and live in instead of just look at.
"You'd be surprised how important the distinction."
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look i couldn't find a way to make him taking another card more interesting
FAIR.
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slides back in here
the fun never stops!!
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