Her grip eases. This is not the moment for strain. She is only catching her breath, gathering herself for what comes next. The contact lightens accordingly: her hand still splayed at the back of his shoulder, but no longer clenched there like an anchor driven into stone.
"Free will," she continues, "but with measurable consequences. I have free will because my actions reliably affect the world." A quiet beat, precise as a theorem concluded. "To believe otherwise is to accept a universe that is nothing more than incoherent accidents occasionally interrupted by miracles."
Her thumb sweeps, idle, across a faint dried stain. Her blood, she realizes. How did it even get back here — on the back of his shirt? Until she remembers holding onto him on the trek through the streets.
'Unsatisfying'. "Right," he says dryly. "You don't believe in God, do you?"
Verso can't imagine what that's like. To live life thinking everything sprung from nothing, that you are the only master of your soul. He wishes desperately that he could.
Very carefully, so as not to displace her, he reaches down for the blouse on the divan. Without looking, he holds it out for her to take.
Her answer starts simple. Honest to a fault. She does not believe in the Almighty, as the Vorin Church described him. She does not believe in one omniscient, all-powerful deity. She does believe that one can believe in something greater than oneself without subscribing to organized religion. Without worship. If divinity exists, it's in the hearts of people. Surely.
— Nevermind that the enemy whose forces occupy her homeworld is a terrifically powerful lower-g god. But not a God. Hers has become a stranger stance to take now that the nature of the Shards has been revealed. Still, she clings to it.
She tugs the blouse from his hand and gets to work.
"My loudest critics like to say my disbelief makes me immoral. Disbelief in God is not disbelief in right and wrong. It is disbelief in coercion masquerading as morality. If goodness must be policed to exist, then it was never goodness to begin with. I would rather answer to my own conscience than borrow one from fear."
Okay, that was a lot of words to say while also fighting with the voluminous blouse sleeves. But maybe she's feel a little — defensive. As if she anticipates Verso, too, will think less of her for it. It's unusual for her to care so much what someone else thinks. But here we are.
Wow, that was a lot of words to say while fighting with blouse sleeves, but Verso is thankfully only distantly aware of what's going on with her through listening to the rustle of her movements. Her dignity remains intact. While she talks, he reaches down, groping for the fabric of her skirt until he can grasp it with his fingertips without moving too much. He holds it, then, waiting for her to need it.
"I don't think you're immoral." Far from it. Clearly, she has lofty ambitions to improve Roshar. Would someone immoral spend so much of their time thinking of that? "I like the way you see the world."
It's the small, inward pause of someone unaccustomed to having their internal architecture admired out loud. Heat creeps up her throat, uninvited and unmistakable, settling high on her cheeks. If Verso were facing her, he would see it at once. Fortunately for her dignity, he's not.
Behind him, she continues to steady herself with one hand at his shoulder. The blouse is only half-sorted. The situation is...ridiculous. Intimate. Ill-timed. Her voice is stripped of lecture cadence. Stripped, frankly, of armour. More naked than she is at this point, actually.
"Thank you," she says. No qualifier. Just sincerity. Then, moments later: "What do you believe?"
About a God. Capitalized or otherwise. And while she asks, her safehand fingers catch on the the skirt still waiting in his hand. The contact is brief, minimized. Just a little casual religious discourse over getting dressed. No biggie.
The stretch of silence is notable. He wonders if maybe he said the wrong thing, if she's taking it as a platitude instead of the compliment it was meant. Sure, he's no stranger to trivial flattery, but this isn't that. The way Jasnah sees the world is unusual, unique, but he appreciates it. She believes in forging one's own path, no matter what anyone else thinks. That's the way he wants to be, too.
But then she finally says 'thank you', and he assumes she must have decided to take the words for what they are.
As for what he believes: "It's complicated." Family always is. "If you can Paint life"—said with all the significance of a capital 'P'—"and you can Paint death... that must make you a god in some ways."
He frowns at that stain on the wall. "Everyone else must seem like ants to them."
With considerable, hard-won effort, Jasnah manages to dress herself. Not without still requiring some additional assistance — there are ties she cannot quite reach, strings that require tightening, a blouse that resists being tucked without aggravating protest from her abdomen. But she gets there. Presentable, for a generous definition of the word.
The Thaylen style is undeniably breezier than her ruined havah. Even fully arranged, it bares more shoulder than she would ever have chosen for herself under ordinary circumstances, draping along the body in ways Alethi tailoring studiously avoids. Ordinarily, Jasnah would not be caught dead in something so unstructured, so willing to acknowledge the shape of the person wearing it.
Today, she permits it.
Once she is dressed enough, she reaches out and taps his shoulder and nudges him to turn back around.
"You're talking about the Paintress," she states, when she can see his eyes again. She hadn't forgotten their chat on the Plains.
"—Yeah," he says as he takes Jasnah's new digs in. It's not a scandalous amount of skin to show by Lumièran standards (check Sciel bearing her stomach in that crop top), but it makes him feel a little hot for the fact that it's Jasnah's skin, something heretofore unknown to him. Unknown to a lot of people, probably.
He grabs the vest and hands it to her.
"The Gommage is proof that—" A moment of hesitation here, a little stumbling. How to explain without sharing too much? "That we're all just toys for someone more powerful than us to play with and put away at their leisure."
Jasnah takes the vest and holds it. Not donning it, yet.
"Power is not the same thing as divinity," she says, meeting his eyes without flinching. "If forces exist that can erase lives on a schedule, that doesn't make the people beneath them toys."
Something sharp glints beneath her composure. Defiance. Conviction without apology. And too much idealism.
"I don't believe the universe plays with us," Jasnah goes on. "I believe it's indifferent. Which is worse, perhaps. But also better. Indifference leaves room for responsibility. For choice." A pause. "If someone were arranging deaths for their own amusement, I wouldn't kneel and call them a god. I'd call them a tyrant. And tyrants can be opposed."
Jasnah would certainly be the type to join an Expedition. It's written all over her: in her certainty and her politics. She would choose the uncertain death over the guaranteed one every time.
It's so much more complicated than that, but— he doesn't try to explain. No one ever understood any of the times he'd attempted to tell the truth. It's easier just to live the fiction.
He makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, gesturing toward the divan with a tilt of his head. She should probably sit down.
She should probably sit down. Yes. But the moment he signals so, it's like a rock-wall goes up between action and will. Like she can't do it if it's his idea — not after already ceding so much ground to him.
Ah, well. The best defense is a good offense. If she's going to end up sitting, then she wants something out of it.
"—Can you braid hair?"
Jasnah isn't ignoring the bit about an apparent academy for those expeditions he once talked about. She'll circle back.
Ah. One of those non-answers. How much simpler it would have been if he'd acted on the implication instead of maddeningly rolling the matter back into her hands. What, precisely, is she meant to do now? Ask for help? Again? She's already spent the last few minutes borrowing his steadiness like a resource she hadn't budgeted for.
She shakes her head, once. Loose, dark hair sliding forward, unrestrained and irritating. While she'd been resting, she'd thought more than once about sweeping it back, taming it into a braid. Only to balk at the effort. Even a simple braid would do. Not the usual severe construction with pins and clasps, but something functional. Anything better than this.
Carefully, she lowers herself back onto the divan, one hand fisted in the unworn vest, the other briefly using his elbow to steady herself. She doesn't recline. She perches at the edge, spine straight, intention clear.
"...Yours?" he asks, although of course that's the implication. Makes sense. Her hair's probably a bit of a mess after rolling around on it all day. Verso would know; his shaggy hair's gotten matted after a day of depression-rotting in his bedroll.
He settles cautiously beside her on the edge of the divan, pulling a leg up so that he can turn toward her. If it were Alicia, he wouldn't hesitate for a second, but his hands hover over Jasnah's hair for a moment before attempting to comb through it with his fingers.
She turns a little too quickly — ow — but indicates the satchel sitting at their feet. Her meagre bundle of belongings, the one they left the ship with and that survived their flight through the city. It felt like a lifetime ago, but she'd bartered with that first sailor for a metal-toothed comb when he'd asked for her help dictating a letter. She's fairly certain it was for his prodigious beard.
"In there. Somewhere."
— Storms, it's truly miserable not able to bend and reach and twist. She doesn't like this helpless feeling.
Verso digs through the satchel for a comb and a hair tie, eyeing the comb suspiciously—hey, didn't she complain about his hair looking a mess? Would have been nice to share, Jasnah—before getting to work gently working out the tangle of her hair. Alicia had always complained about Maman yanking at her hair, so he'd learned to have a softer touch.
"You know," he says idly, "once Monoco's mane got so matted that I had to chop the tangles out. The bald spots lasted weeks."
Hey! In her slim defense, that was before she bargained for the comb. Probably. Maybe. Who can remember.
Right now, Jasnah holds so much tension in her body — stiff, sore, straight-backed. It's unusual. Hers is often more of a natural composure. Severe, but not to the point of looking quite so contrived.
"You're not inspiring much confidence," she hedges.
She's not wrong. But— "Hey," he chides, like she's being unfair. All of the stiffness he can see in her shoulders makes him want to reach out and make her loosen up, but that would probably only make her more tense, so he resists the urge. "That was way worse than this."
Although there is a particularly stubborn tangle. He works diligently at it, careful not to pull. Owww, he can hear Alicia say, I'm going to pull your hair out next if you're not careful. So, careful he is.
"He'd been stuck under a building for a year," he says with the sort of lighthearted tone that suggests this is a funny and not uncommon occurrence. "It was unsalvageable at that point."
Even Jasnah can admit there is something a little magical about letting someone else tend to her hair. The quiet slide of strands being separated, the occasional scrape of the comb against her scalp. Even the mild tug as a knot is worked free carries a strange, unexpected sensation. It is intimate in a way she doesn't yet have language for. Odd, but not necessarily unfamiliar. And she is still deciding what to make of it when he continues his story about Monoco’s Very Unfortunate Haircut.
"How did he manage that?" She asks, genuinely curious.
She doesn't ask how could he have been there for a year, because she already knows the answer. Gestrals, like spren, do not adhere to death the way most humans do.
(A sharp breath, entirely unrelated to the detangling happening now. Don't think about Ivory.)
She tilts her head just slightly, giving him better access, her tone sharpening with interest. "Better question," she amends. "What were you doing for an entire year while your dearest friend was trapped under a building?"
The worst of the knots in her hair dealt with, he sets down the comb and gets to braiding. He'd braid Monoco's hair like this sometimes, too. He'd thought it made him look warriorly, like a viking of old. Then Monoco would insist on doing his hair, too, and then they'd sport ridiculous matching hairstyles until Verso finally had to take it out.
"I thought that he went back to the Gestral Village." It's not his fault. "And we'd... been having some disagreements, so I thought he might not want to see me."
So, Verso left him there.
"It was only a year later that I realized he wasn't avoiding me. Took ages to get him out from under all that rubble."
All the same, he says this with a sort of fond reminiscence. Good times.
Something feels — off — in his story. It's not that it sounds fake. Jasnah believes the details, given what she's learned about gestrals. It's more that it sounds incredibly sad. And here's Verso, delivering it like it's no different from an afternoon spent avoiding a sibling. Faced obliquely away from him, she briefly thoughtfully chews her bottom lip.
— How lonely Monoco must have felt. How abandoned. It's a hard lesson, learning even the people who love you can hurt you. And not even on purpose.
Her head bobs and tilts, going with the soft tug of hair being braided, and when she notices the movement she steels herself, takes a breath, and stiffens once again.
Verso's nose twitches as he realizes that maybe, just maybe, this doesn't sound as much like a funny story to someone outside of it. It hadn't been funny at the time—Monoco had been furious, and Verso had felt terrible—but it's funny now with the benefit of hindsight. Sort of a 'you have to laugh or you'll cry' situation.
"Of course he did," he says, noting her stiffness and being careful to be businesslike, not allowing his fingers to linger on the nape of his neck or be too indulgent as they work through her hair. "Monoco always forgives me."
He kind of has to.
"Besides, I've had worse. Once, I got trapped under a rockslide in the mountains for two years. Thought I'd never get out."
Honestly, Jasnah should find this fun and interesting!
There's an itch at the base of her spine. Frustrating, maddening, and familiar. The unmistakable sensation of a conversation she has already had, in too many variations. The shape of it is the same every time: the content, the cadence, the faintly put-upon expectation that the listener ought to be suitably impressed by a tale of endurance. Immortal woe, carefully burnished. It lands with a dull thud of recognition.
It's exactly like him. Jasnah rolls her eyes.
"Let me guess," she says, voice edged with ennui rather than disgust. "You resigned yourself to making a home among the pebbles until a stranger with impeccable timing happened along and pulled you free. Now you're burdened with a life-debt to be repaid at some indeterminate future date."
There. That was unkind. Not cruel, but pointed enough to sting. She feels it the moment it leaves her mouth. Her posture softens, shoulders dropping as if in quiet rebuke of herself. She doesn't like it when her temper gets the better of her. And Verso can't be held accountable for the arch ways in which Wit would put himself above the rest.
"Sometimes," she adds, more carefully now, "it doesn't matter that you've had worse. Suffering isn't a competition."
"Uh, no," he replies, hands stilling. Usually, people like those stories. Find them exciting and interesting. Expeditioners, especially, seem to love the idea of enduring something lethal and coming out the other side with only a few scratches. (No points for guessing why a person doomed to an untimely demise would like that.)
"Esquie came to find me, so that I could help him look for his lost pet rocks."
Obviously. Nothing so dramatic.
"I thought you'd like hearing about my immortality," he says, trying not to sound petulant as he ties off the braid. "That's all."
Hard to explain, isn't it? How she does like hearing about all sorts of things about him — but also how a particular delivery and circumstance can make her kind of a petty bitch about it. Wit's right. Timing truly is the talent that mankind values most. But that line of thinking just risks making her more annoyed, so!
"I do," she answers. And it's true. It's not a backpedal or a correction. Just...fact. Fact, without any justification or explanation for her behaviour. But a fact all the same. "I would."
But what?
"Simply didn't seem fair. Comparing your circumstances to Monoco's."
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Her grip eases. This is not the moment for strain. She is only catching her breath, gathering herself for what comes next. The contact lightens accordingly: her hand still splayed at the back of his shoulder, but no longer clenched there like an anchor driven into stone.
"Free will," she continues, "but with measurable consequences. I have free will because my actions reliably affect the world." A quiet beat, precise as a theorem concluded. "To believe otherwise is to accept a universe that is nothing more than incoherent accidents occasionally interrupted by miracles."
Her thumb sweeps, idle, across a faint dried stain. Her blood, she realizes. How did it even get back here — on the back of his shirt? Until she remembers holding onto him on the trek through the streets.
"And I find that option rather unsatisfying."
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Verso can't imagine what that's like. To live life thinking everything sprung from nothing, that you are the only master of your soul. He wishes desperately that he could.
Very carefully, so as not to displace her, he reaches down for the blouse on the divan. Without looking, he holds it out for her to take.
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Her answer starts simple. Honest to a fault. She does not believe in the Almighty, as the Vorin Church described him. She does not believe in one omniscient, all-powerful deity. She does believe that one can believe in something greater than oneself without subscribing to organized religion. Without worship. If divinity exists, it's in the hearts of people. Surely.
— Nevermind that the enemy whose forces occupy her homeworld is a terrifically powerful lower-g god. But not a God. Hers has become a stranger stance to take now that the nature of the Shards has been revealed. Still, she clings to it.
She tugs the blouse from his hand and gets to work.
"My loudest critics like to say my disbelief makes me immoral. Disbelief in God is not disbelief in right and wrong. It is disbelief in coercion masquerading as morality. If goodness must be policed to exist, then it was never goodness to begin with. I would rather answer to my own conscience than borrow one from fear."
Okay, that was a lot of words to say while also fighting with the voluminous blouse sleeves. But maybe she's feel a little — defensive. As if she anticipates Verso, too, will think less of her for it. It's unusual for her to care so much what someone else thinks. But here we are.
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"I don't think you're immoral." Far from it. Clearly, she has lofty ambitions to improve Roshar. Would someone immoral spend so much of their time thinking of that? "I like the way you see the world."
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It's the small, inward pause of someone unaccustomed to having their internal architecture admired out loud. Heat creeps up her throat, uninvited and unmistakable, settling high on her cheeks. If Verso were facing her, he would see it at once. Fortunately for her dignity, he's not.
Behind him, she continues to steady herself with one hand at his shoulder. The blouse is only half-sorted. The situation is...ridiculous. Intimate. Ill-timed. Her voice is stripped of lecture cadence. Stripped, frankly, of armour. More naked than she is at this point, actually.
"Thank you," she says. No qualifier. Just sincerity. Then, moments later: "What do you believe?"
About a God. Capitalized or otherwise. And while she asks, her safehand fingers catch on the the skirt still waiting in his hand. The contact is brief, minimized. Just a little casual religious discourse over getting dressed. No biggie.
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But then she finally says 'thank you', and he assumes she must have decided to take the words for what they are.
As for what he believes: "It's complicated." Family always is. "If you can Paint life"—said with all the significance of a capital 'P'—"and you can Paint death... that must make you a god in some ways."
He frowns at that stain on the wall. "Everyone else must seem like ants to them."
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The Thaylen style is undeniably breezier than her ruined havah. Even fully arranged, it bares more shoulder than she would ever have chosen for herself under ordinary circumstances, draping along the body in ways Alethi tailoring studiously avoids. Ordinarily, Jasnah would not be caught dead in something so unstructured, so willing to acknowledge the shape of the person wearing it.
Today, she permits it.
Once she is dressed enough, she reaches out and taps his shoulder and nudges him to turn back around.
"You're talking about the Paintress," she states, when she can see his eyes again. She hadn't forgotten their chat on the Plains.
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He grabs the vest and hands it to her.
"The Gommage is proof that—" A moment of hesitation here, a little stumbling. How to explain without sharing too much? "That we're all just toys for someone more powerful than us to play with and put away at their leisure."
Sounds pretty godlike to him.
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"Power is not the same thing as divinity," she says, meeting his eyes without flinching. "If forces exist that can erase lives on a schedule, that doesn't make the people beneath them toys."
Something sharp glints beneath her composure. Defiance. Conviction without apology. And too much idealism.
"I don't believe the universe plays with us," Jasnah goes on. "I believe it's indifferent. Which is worse, perhaps. But also better. Indifference leaves room for responsibility. For choice." A pause. "If someone were arranging deaths for their own amusement, I wouldn't kneel and call them a god. I'd call them a tyrant. And tyrants can be opposed."
Jasnah would certainly be the type to join an Expedition. It's written all over her: in her certainty and her politics. She would choose the uncertain death over the guaranteed one every time.
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He makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, gesturing toward the divan with a tilt of his head. She should probably sit down.
"The Expeditioner Academy would have loved you."
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Ah, well. The best defense is a good offense. If she's going to end up sitting, then she wants something out of it.
"—Can you braid hair?"
Jasnah isn't ignoring the bit about an apparent academy for those expeditions he once talked about. She'll circle back.
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"Well, I have a little sister," he says. Have, not had. "And I'm a very good big brother." So, what does she think?
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She shakes her head, once. Loose, dark hair sliding forward, unrestrained and irritating. While she'd been resting, she'd thought more than once about sweeping it back, taming it into a braid. Only to balk at the effort. Even a simple braid would do. Not the usual severe construction with pins and clasps, but something functional. Anything better than this.
Carefully, she lowers herself back onto the divan, one hand fisted in the unworn vest, the other briefly using his elbow to steady herself. She doesn't recline. She perches at the edge, spine straight, intention clear.
Then she looks up at him and says: "Prove it."
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He settles cautiously beside her on the edge of the divan, pulling a leg up so that he can turn toward her. If it were Alicia, he wouldn't hesitate for a second, but his hands hover over Jasnah's hair for a moment before attempting to comb through it with his fingers.
—Yeesh. "Do you have a comb? Or a tie?"
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She turns a little too quickly — ow — but indicates the satchel sitting at their feet. Her meagre bundle of belongings, the one they left the ship with and that survived their flight through the city. It felt like a lifetime ago, but she'd bartered with that first sailor for a metal-toothed comb when he'd asked for her help dictating a letter. She's fairly certain it was for his prodigious beard.
"In there. Somewhere."
— Storms, it's truly miserable not able to bend and reach and twist. She doesn't like this helpless feeling.
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"You know," he says idly, "once Monoco's mane got so matted that I had to chop the tangles out. The bald spots lasted weeks."
...
"Not that I'm going to do that here."
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Right now, Jasnah holds so much tension in her body — stiff, sore, straight-backed. It's unusual. Hers is often more of a natural composure. Severe, but not to the point of looking quite so contrived.
"You're not inspiring much confidence," she hedges.
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Although there is a particularly stubborn tangle. He works diligently at it, careful not to pull. Owww, he can hear Alicia say, I'm going to pull your hair out next if you're not careful. So, careful he is.
"He'd been stuck under a building for a year," he says with the sort of lighthearted tone that suggests this is a funny and not uncommon occurrence. "It was unsalvageable at that point."
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"How did he manage that?" She asks, genuinely curious.
She doesn't ask how could he have been there for a year, because she already knows the answer. Gestrals, like spren, do not adhere to death the way most humans do.
(A sharp breath, entirely unrelated to the detangling happening now. Don't think about Ivory.)
She tilts her head just slightly, giving him better access, her tone sharpening with interest. "Better question," she amends. "What were you doing for an entire year while your dearest friend was trapped under a building?"
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The worst of the knots in her hair dealt with, he sets down the comb and gets to braiding. He'd braid Monoco's hair like this sometimes, too. He'd thought it made him look warriorly, like a viking of old. Then Monoco would insist on doing his hair, too, and then they'd sport ridiculous matching hairstyles until Verso finally had to take it out.
"I thought that he went back to the Gestral Village." It's not his fault. "And we'd... been having some disagreements, so I thought he might not want to see me."
So, Verso left him there.
"It was only a year later that I realized he wasn't avoiding me. Took ages to get him out from under all that rubble."
All the same, he says this with a sort of fond reminiscence. Good times.
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— How lonely Monoco must have felt. How abandoned. It's a hard lesson, learning even the people who love you can hurt you. And not even on purpose.
Her head bobs and tilts, going with the soft tug of hair being braided, and when she notices the movement she steels herself, takes a breath, and stiffens once again.
"He forgave you?"
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"Of course he did," he says, noting her stiffness and being careful to be businesslike, not allowing his fingers to linger on the nape of his neck or be too indulgent as they work through her hair. "Monoco always forgives me."
He kind of has to.
"Besides, I've had worse. Once, I got trapped under a rockslide in the mountains for two years. Thought I'd never get out."
Honestly, Jasnah should find this fun and interesting!
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It's exactly like him. Jasnah rolls her eyes.
"Let me guess," she says, voice edged with ennui rather than disgust. "You resigned yourself to making a home among the pebbles until a stranger with impeccable timing happened along and pulled you free. Now you're burdened with a life-debt to be repaid at some indeterminate future date."
There. That was unkind. Not cruel, but pointed enough to sting. She feels it the moment it leaves her mouth. Her posture softens, shoulders dropping as if in quiet rebuke of herself. She doesn't like it when her temper gets the better of her. And Verso can't be held accountable for the arch ways in which Wit would put himself above the rest.
"Sometimes," she adds, more carefully now, "it doesn't matter that you've had worse. Suffering isn't a competition."
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"Esquie came to find me, so that I could help him look for his lost pet rocks."
Obviously. Nothing so dramatic.
"I thought you'd like hearing about my immortality," he says, trying not to sound petulant as he ties off the braid. "That's all."
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"I do," she answers. And it's true. It's not a backpedal or a correction. Just...fact. Fact, without any justification or explanation for her behaviour. But a fact all the same. "I would."
But what?
"Simply didn't seem fair. Comparing your circumstances to Monoco's."
Sure. That's what bothered her.
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congrats on receiving my 1,000th comment in this post
throwing a party!!
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