recreatable | open post.

For a moment, her attention lingers on his pocket. She's grateful he takes the needle — truly — but her thoughts remain snagged on the metal itself. If it had been aluminum, surely removing it would have been enough to restore Ivory's sapience. Which leaves silver. Storms.

"Yes," she says at last, testing the answer as much as offering it. That threadbare trickle of stormlight helped. It didn't heal her but it steadied something inside her. Took the edge off the pain. Nudged her forward, so to speak.

"It feels a little like just before I spoke my first Ideal for Ivory." Her head tilts, teeth catching briefly at her lower lip as she turns the memory over. "Like a sip of power. Much, much less than I'm used to."

She looks down at the spren cradled in her palm, fingers cupped protectively around his sharp, unmoving angles.

Then she glances back at Verso.

"Help me to my feet?" she asks — slanted, careful, already halfway trusting he will by the way she takes his arm.

"Of course," he says, and he means it—of course he will. She doesn't need to ask. Although he'd like to lead her by the hand again, he instead lets her take his arm, less helping her and more acting as a pillar for her to steady herself against. Even in this, she has all the real control.

If their connection has been restored, then he wonders if their conditions will influence each other. Seems like the type of question that would send Jasnah on a lecture—perhaps about how stupid he is—so he doesn't ask. They both need to recuperate regardless.

"Come on. You and Ivory could both use some rest."

Maybe, maybe, maybe if she weren't so thoroughly occupied by injury, by Ivory's unnerving stillness, by the unresolved question mark hanging over the attack itself, Jasnah might notice how far into the hairline fractures of her composure she's allowed Verso to seep. How instinctive it has become to reach for him. How unexamined.

It's thoughtless, now, the way she braces herself against his upper arm as she pushes to her feet. Thoughtless, too, that her fingers stay curled there once she's upright, as if the contact were structural — foundational — rather than optional. At least it's her right hand, with Ivory is cradled with care in her safehand. Tucked close and protected.

"All I've been doing is resting," she says, the words coming out closer to a growl than she intends. Tired. That thin, brittle anxiety that sets in once the adrenaline has burned off and reality comes rushing back in. Despite the sharpness of her tone, she keeps hold of him. "With Ivory recovered, we should plan how to extricate ourselves from Thaylen City."

It's a leap and bounds ahead of where she should be thinking; miles past where her body actually is. As if all this enforced stillness had only ever been for Ivory's sake, not her own. As if the stronger she feels, the more intolerable the waiting becomes. The sitting. The being tended to.

Jasnah has never been good at savouring her victories.

"Silly me," Verso says, dry, "thinking a stab victim might require more than a week to recover."

He doesn't argue, though, because at least for the moment, it's only mental labor that Jasnah's attempting to do. If physical labor becomes part of it, he might feel the need to step in—but for now, she can think as much as she'd like. God knows her brain must be constantly moving.

So, he shrugs, lets it roll off his back as they make their way to Jochi's again. Up the stairs is more of a hassle than down the stairs, but they manage it; once he has Jasnah and Ivory settled on the couch, he crouches down to slip the needle into one of the pockets of their bags.

"It might be wise to stay here until Ivory has fully recovered," he says, choosing not to point out that he selfishly enjoys being here, important and needed.

It rankles her that by the time she's back on the couch, after the stairs, she's faintly out of breath. It's a sensation she’s unaccustomed to. Six years of ready stormlight has erased such small indignities, has made enhanced strength and endurance feel like baseline reality rather than the borrowed advantages they actually are.

That, and the sheen of sweat on her brow, the way the back of her blouse clings damply to her spine, are frustratingly visceral confirmations that Verso is right. A week hasn't been long enough. She could argue that it has been long enough, safe enough, that she could now reach out to Fen, the Thaylen queen, and quietly request an Edgedancer to finish what Jasnah couldn't do. But ever-paranoid, Jasnah isn't prepared to make that concession. Not yet. Can she even trust Queen Fen?

Ivory's small, unmoving body rests swaddled in clean linen taken from Jochi's kitchenette, tucked into a slightly ajar drawer of the end table that's served as their dining surface and card table all week. She knows Ivory would loathe this. Visible. Vulnerable. Subject to the whims of human hands.

"There's no way of knowing how long that could take," she counters, clipped but not unkind. Jasnah will not sit here — cut off from crown and people — for weeks on end.

So she bargains. Another indignity she's unused to suffering.

"Over the next few days, I'll get a clearer sense of whether or not I can leverage more stormlight. Heal, properly. If I can, then we move on once I'm back on my feet. Even unconscious, Ivory won't be a burden to carry with me."

"If you can heal, sure," he says, glancing up from their belongings.

It's the verbal equivalent of a pat on the head and a sure you can, honey. She'd only managed a small amount of stormlight once Ivory was returned to her; he's no expert on her magic, but it seems unlikely that she'll be able to do much of anything until Ivory has recovered, too. Still, he doesn't argue the point that if she manages to heal herself, then they can go.

"You're certain taking the Oathgate won't be too hard on him?"

That is, if there's an Oathgate for them to take at all. That still seems up in the air.

— Does her nose crinkle at his initial tone? Abso-storming-lutely. A little human comma in the calm of her expression. One of those little flickers that remind the people around her that she's not wholly a stone. Just three-quarters one.

"Certain enough," Jasnah answers. As though principle won't allow her to simply say yes when there's even a fractional chance of being wrong. "The Oathgates work by leveraging the sprens' native realm. If anything, the brief dip into the Cognitive might help him."

Something she'd already considered. Had she stormlight, she might have opened a small elsegate into the Cognitive Realm and observed whether or not it helped. Pure hypotheticals.

"Provided Thaylen City's is functioning," she unknowingly echoes his thoughts. They'd fled Kharbranth so quickly, there wasn't any time to confirm whether the Oathgate issue was real or fabricated.

Verso makes an internal note to learn more about the Cognitive and spren so he doesn't sound like such an idiot talking to Jasnah. So much lore to study, so little time.

"Yeah," he concedes, "provided."

He stands, making his way to the kitchenette to pour himself and Jasnah each a glass of water. It's been a long day, and he'd love to just crash on the divan, but, well— there's a stab victim there. Another night of killing his back on the wooden floor. The only reason he's looking forward to leaving this place is getting back to his bed.

Calling from the kitchen, he asks, "And if it isn't?"

It's okay, Verso! The average Rosharan doesn't understand this stuff either. It's simply your supreme bad luck to be stuck with one of the few people on this planet who possesses a rudimentary grasp of Realmatic Theory. Sorry, not sorry.

"Then we pay a visit to the Royal Palace and see what the Thaylen queen could do for us."

We, us. It's subtle — but they're a unit, now.

Edited 2026-01-07 01:13 (UTC)

Verso tries not to get too excited about the sound of that us. He half-convinces himself she's referring to herself and Ivory instead, that he's just the annoying tagalong she got unfortunately stuck with through all of this. After all, she can't even bring herself to call him a friend.

As he returns to the sitting room, he drops one of the glasses on the end table. The other goes on the real table across the room, where he's been sitting and entertaining himself much of the time. "What's the relationship like between Alethkar and Thaylenah?"

"Fledgling, but positive." Jasnah sighs, wondering how much of her own hestitation boils down to misplaced, bone-deep Alethi pride. "Thaylenah was never the target of any of Alethekar's past conquests. But they witnessed more than enough of what happened in other kingdoms to be rightfully wary."

Depending on where he reached in the weighty history tome assigned by Jasnah once-upon-a-time, Verso may already be aware of what she's implying. The Sunmaker's rule, some six hundred centuries ago, where it's said one in every ten Azish people died under Alethi tyranny following the conquering of Azimir.

Dalinar, to his credit, had done well re-establishing diplomatic ties with all the nations that would eventually form the Coalition than she might ever have anticipated. Better than Jasnah would ever have anticipated. Initially, Queen Fen had assumed the overture a ruse in some new Alethi campaign. But, over time, they'd won her over.

"Alethkar has had an unsavoury reputation for most of its existence," she acknowledges. "Which makes diplomacy challenging."

Jasnah leans forward, wincing slightly, and picks up the water in one hand. She doesn't immediately drink.

"Fen and I have corresponded regularly, however. And I trust she would help us. It's the rest of the Thaylen government that gives me pause."

Edited (Wary, wary, wary!) 2026-01-07 15:56 (UTC)

Verso turns his chair slightly toward Jasnah, leaning back in an attempt to find some comfort and relaxation in the wooden back of it. Living an ascetic lifestyle is not new to him, but he'd been able to make the best of it on the Continent; he'd at least had a soft bedroll to place atop the floorboards, and a squishy Esquie if he really needed relaxation. He wonders, briefly, if Jasnah would tell on him if he went to lie on Jochi's mattress for a bit.

"Gives you pause how?" he asks, attention piqued. Given enough scenarios where everything has gone wrong, you tend to become security conscious—not for himself (obviously; he's been eaten so many times) but for others. If the Thaylen government is going to cause undue issues, maybe they should try to figure this out on their own instead.

"Could anyone there be dangerous to you?"

Tap, tap, tap go her nails against the rim of the water glass. She could prevaricate — explain how Queen Fen's Merchant Council holds the true balance of power in the city, how the merchant class harbours the deepest reservations about Alethi interference. But he didn't ask who was dangerous to Alethkar. He asked who was dangerous to her.

"If this latest attempt was orchestrated by who I think it was..." she begins, picking her way through information she has clearly resisted sharing. It would almost be easier if he believed her worry was diffuse and general and habitual. Unspecific. "That would suggest a renewed interest in removing me from the board. One I thought had burned itself out a year ago."

She turns the glass slowly in her hand. Wills herself to drink. Reminds herself that it's safe. If she can trust him with this much truth, she can trust the water he handed her. What an absurdly long con it would otherwise be — to keep her alive this long only to poison her now. Still, the very thought of the Ghostbloods makes something tighten in her chest.

"Fen's council isn't the issue," she continues. "It's who else might have slipped into it. There's a shadowy group operating on Roshar — one that likes to get its fingers into every crevice. It isn't far-fetched to think they've placed an agent in ever Coalition government."

And, before she sounds too paranoid, she adds, "The last time I was in Kharbranth, an ardent approached me and my ward. He...got close to her. Flattered her. Made her think—" A tense exhale. "I won't presume to know what he made her think. He was there on behalf of his employer. He tried to reach me through my ward. That time, it was poison. Not a knife."

Then — boldly, deliberately — she meets Verso's eyes and takes a long first drink of water. Her throat bobs; her pulse stutters. She swallows it down, steady and composed, trusting him in a way he may never fully realize.

"If I were a secret assassin," he points out, because that seems to be what she's getting at with the drink of water. She's willingly consuming something that he's brought from her, ostensibly showing trust; as he's about to mention, though, it's really just common sense. "I would have let you bleed out in the alley instead of ruining my shirt."

He's proven his loyalty, or at least his lack of desire to watch her die. Rationality is on his side more than trust.

"—But," he adds, "if you're worried about the Thaylen government knowing that you're here, we don't have to tell them."

Sure, having the assistance of a queen would certainly help, but surely there are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people who travel without the help of the Oathgates. They made it to Thaylenah without one, although admittedly they'd put themselves in the hands of someone willing to sell out her location. Still, it can't be impossible to make it to Urithiru by other means, too.

"We could catch another ship. I think I've got my sea legs now."

Now that she's had a gulp of water, she recognizes her thirst. Instead of answering — indeed, instead of shooting back at his (yes, of course) obvious points — she downs half her glass in one greedy go. Then, with a stifled stretch, she eases her spine back against the divan. Slaked, but tired, but also leaping from thought-to-thought as he speaks.

He'd endure another sea voyage? Hmm. New sea legs or not, he'd been so green for so much of the last.

"There is one ship I'd engage — provided it's not somewhere else already at sea. We wouldn't have to lie to its shipmaster or captain."

She turns her half-empty glass in her hand, watching the water. Wondering whether Rysn and the Wandersail are currently at port. Wondering whether she could dispatch Verso to inquire.

"But the alternative is to try again — harder — to contact Urithiru." Yet again, she doesn't specify Navani or mother or anything like that. "They'd spare us a couple of Windrunners. I dislike being carted about in the air like cargo; however, it would be faster."

They have some luxury of time, now, given the agreement. Staying put until she's healed enough.

Once again, he thinks of Jochi's explanation that Jasnah expected her mother to intercept her communications. Once again, he thinks of the rumors Jochi shared. He wants to ask, but he knows he shouldn't; Jasnah has only just loosened slightly around him, and pushing her with things he isn't supposed to know will only make her clam up again.

So: "Windrunners?" he asks instead. "Airships?"

— It's fascinating how close he comes to the truth, even by accident. Even if it's still entirely utterly wrong.

"Storms, no. The only functional airship we have is the Fourth Bridge, and extracting us from Thaylen City isn't worth pulling it off the Herdazian border."

The Fourth Bridge is very impressive. She'd like to show it to Verso, some day, when it's not engaged in skirmishes with Odium's forces. As if she has some pique of pride. Some desire to say look, look, Alethkar can be more than blood and conquest. That desire is (of course) somewhat diluted by the reality of...well, war.

"Of all the Radiant orders, Windrunners are the most numerous." And, if you ask Jasnah, most frustrating. "They fly. And have some minor control over the force and pressure of wind currents. Enough to move small groups of people. So, on occasion, they do."

The slight crinkle of her nose is enough to suggest she'd really rather not go that route.

Edited 2026-01-08 00:50 (UTC)

!!!

Sorry, Jasnah, but Verso's attention perks up at that. "So you're saying they could make us fly."

Oh, damnation.

Hedging around her casual, easy claim of flight: "It's a lot closer to manipulating gravitational forces. But — yes, a sufficiently accomplished Windrunner could perhaps carry both of us back using the Surge of Gravitation. Or two Windrunners of the Second Ideal, maybe."

Her words are slow and careful, carrying the burden of someone who doesn't want to make the Windrunners sound too cool but who also refuses to lie about the efficacy of their Surges.

All right. He admits it: it would be amazing to fly. Of course, he's ridden on Esquie, but it isn't the same as being weightless, soaring through the air. The closest comparison he has is in the memories imbued in his chroma: a little boy with the impossible talent to make the Canvas bend to his will, flying through the air beside his most beloved friend. He's never actually experienced it himself, but he can almost feel the wind on his face regardless.

He plays it cool, though. It's practical. Reasonable. Nothing but rational. "That sounds like a safer option than braving potential spies and assassins," he says, getting up to go through their things again. This time, it's the spanreed he's looking for.

"Let's go ahead and try to reach out to Urithiru now." Um. Not because he's impatient. "It, uh, might take a while to reach someone, so."

Damnation and storms and — you know what? Merde, just for good measure.

Jasnah pulls herself back into a more prim, more composed posture. It's a small difference, just a few angles, but it involves peeling her shoulders and spine away from the divan and engaging just enough core musculature to make her mouth twitch. Not pain, just — awareness.

She doesn't argue that the shipmaster and ship she has in mind — Rysn, on the Wandersail — should also avoid spies and assassins. She doesn't argue that they'd need to find a different spanreed to use, since the one he's digging out clearly isn't monitored. She doesn't even argue that Windrunners are self-righteous or that being buoyed along by them is undignified.

Instead, teetering a little before leaning forward and placing an elbow on the end table in accommodation, she asks: "You want to return via Windrunner, don't you?"

Because she's watching him. Intently. And his flurry of activity is being noted.

Edited (realized i wanted to add another line on my drive in!!) 2026-01-08 13:21 (UTC)

Caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. The back of his neck heats with embarrassment at how obvious he must have been for her to notice it. In his defense, it's been a very long time since he's felt that sort of childlike excitement for something. Before the Fracture, certainly. Maybe even before he was ever himself; perhaps all of those memories of joy and wonder belong solely to someone else, and he's only borrowing them.

Regardless of that existential crisis— Verso clears his throat, withdrawing his hand from the bag and shrugging his shoulders noncommittally, a nonverbal whatever.

"Seems practical." And has nothing to do with his selfish desire to fly, obviously. "Isn't that what you were suggesting we do?"

"It is practical," Jasnah admits, not even trying to deny it. By some metrics, there's perhaps nowhere safer than being under a Windrunner's care. Given the ideals they swear to protect others (even those they dislike, provided it's right) and given the strictness with which their spren enforce those ideals...? Certainly nowhere safer.

Still, she hems and haws. After all, it requires handing one's autonomy over almost entirely to someone else. Trusting them to keep you aloft.

"And I was laying out all of our options. We have a handful available to us. More, still, if Ivory recovers and I can use stormlight again."

Ugh. She watches him carefully, trying to game out how this conversation goes. Is she going to corner herself into a good plan that she simply finds distasteful?

"Sit. Let's talk it through."

Edited 2026-01-08 15:04 (UTC)

Hmm. Verso watches Jasnah with the same carefulness with which she regards him—although there's a curiosity to it, too. One dark eyebrow lifts underneath the curtain of his hair, silently inquiring. "You don't want to travel that way," he lands on.

What reason could someone have for not wanting to soar home? After all, she'd been so eager to get back only moments before, willing to forgo the latter part of her convalescence if it meant returning to familiar ground.

—Ah. He nods in realization. "Alicia doesn't like heights, either." Funny, considering the workshop-in-the-sky Renoir has her in. "Vertigo."

He doesn't sit. No, instead he slips a sharp-and-accurate deduction into the conversation. Accurate enough to furrow her expression. It's more than a little annoying to have her own irrationality underlined for her.

Insistent, she reaches out and taps the divan cushion beside her. Sit, she insists again. Silently this time. If only to stop his manic quest for the spanreed. Ground some of that excited energy.

"I don't dislike heights," she counters. Although Jasnah wouldn't say she loves them, either.

"But I do prefer something under my feet. It's...eerie. Being carried by a Surge. No matter how safe."

ditto. 🥂

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