recreatable | open post.

"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."

It feels a bit like being called to heel, but Verso tries not to take too much offense by it; he stops his search for the spanreed and settles down on the divan as requested, hands folded in his lap as he peers at her. Eerie. It sounds like she's saying that it scares her, although he can't see her easily admitting that.

"What's eerie about it?"

Better. She settles into the corner of the couch, angled just enough to keep him in view. At this distance — and with him blessedly stationary — she can actually watch his expressions.

"Hanging in the air," she says, dry as ever. "No deck. No rail. Just some Windrunner's cocky assurance that they've got you, while they invisibly sculpt air and gravity into something approximating flight."

It isn't the height that unsettles her. Nor the danger, nor even the Surges themselves. Those, at least, she understands. It's the reliance. The absolute, unilateral trust required. Being held aloft by nothing she can see or influence, dependent entirely on someone else's focus and goodwill.

It's not fear. It's the loss of control.

"Putting yourself in someone else's hands can be frightening," he agrees, even though he doesn't have much trepidation when it comes to this. What's the worst that could happen? He could fall to the ground and break every bone in his body? They'll be nothing but bruises almost instantly, and even those will fade in a few minutes.

"Would it help if you had something to hold onto?"

Slow, idle, she turns the water glass on the table. Fingers braced against its rim, gently wheeling bottom's edge in a tight circle. She finds the required tension — shoulder to elbow to wrist to fingertip — comfortable. Like maybe she needs a bit of resistance to feel calm. Like maybe sitting loose-limbed and relaxed is worse.

Jasnah asks herself: is he talking as though it's already decided? She has so many excellent points yet to make about the Wandersail's crew. Or, damnation, even reconsidering some discreet means of contacting Fen and gaining access to the Oathgate.

But rather than change the subject, she entertains his question.

"Something to hold onto. Like what?" A pause that's long enough to roll her eyes. "Some Windrunner squire's bootlace?"

Please, Jasnah, save the rolling of your eyes for after he's completed his suggestion.

"Sure," Verso says with a shrug, because it's better than nothing, isn't it? At least then she would have something physical to ground her; it seems like floating around in space without any control is what unsettles her the most, and even a bootlace could help rectify that feeling. "If you want. We could even tie your hand to theirs, if it would make you feel better."

...Somehow, though, he imagines that being essentially handcuffed to a Windrunner isn't a calming idea to her.

"Or you could hold onto me, if you want." Not really out of practicality, but mostly so she'd have something to squeeze when she got scared—but he doesn't dare say that. "Promise I'll cushion your fall if they let you go."

Oh. The look of horror on her face when he suggests being tied, hand-to-hand, to a Windrunner. It doesn't even matter who gets sent — although if she had to pick, the least dreadful option would be Sigzil. of course.

Maybe her pinched, doubt-filled expression ought to have carried over when Verso volunteers himself. A few weeks ago, it like would have. But now she has considerably more experience holding onto him. And, turns out, it's not so bad. He's steady. Reliable. And, to be brutally honest, she doesn't hate the idea of a regenerating human crash-pad if things go awry. It's just as well that he suggests it himself, because that's a shot less gauche than if she had made the argument.

There it is. That pregnant pause that suggests she's thinking something through — considering it, following its webbed map along the different outcomes, roadblocks, variations. The Windrunners are a frustrating order, but at least they're loyal to Urithiru. Even Kaladin Stormblessed himself would be a sure bet, no matter how much bad blood between them.

"We should at least consider the other options," she counters.

Edited 2026-01-09 00:18 (UTC)

"Okay," he agrees, leaning back in his seat. Despite his obvious bias toward the Windrunners—safe, fast, and they get to fly—she has a point that they should review all of their options. It's rational to do so. Practical.

All the same, he's not going to do it for her. He gestures expectantly. "After you, then."

Hand before her, she abandons fidgeting with her water glass in favour of counting possibilities against her gloved palm.

Tapping one finger: "There's a merchant ship called the Wandersail that my mother has contracted with before — the controlling interest is owned by a trader named Rysn. Trustworthy and smart." Jasnah doesn't mention the slightly creepy way in which Rysn could also help them contact Urithiru if spanreeds still don't work out. She's not sure that introducing the concept of secret hivemind bug people would be helpful at this point in their collaborative scheming.

Tapping two fingers: "There's Queen Fen. I imagine there are ways we can make contact that don't involve revealing all our cards," a tight smile at the metaphor, "especially if you approach without me."

Tapping three fingers: "We wait for Ivory to recover and, provided all goes well, my abilities return and I can elsegate us into Shadesmar, where we take the long, long way home." Her fingers drum briefly in place. "Objectively, that last one is even worse than the Windrunners. But it still could be on the table. Hypothetically."

Jasnah pauses. Likely asking herself, silently, if there's any candidates she's forgotten to outline. Is she...enjoying this? Maybe. It takes all sorts. And she's a sort that happens to love a little co-conspiracy, even if the objective is just get home.

Okay; the Wandersail doesn't sound so bad, although he'll undoubtedly get sick again. A small price to pay for returning to— not home. Verso hasn't used the word 'home' in the better part of seven decades. But something close to it, someplace familiar. Someplace where he can lie down in a bed that's all his own and rest.

"The ship is an option." Not the most exciting one, but an option. "But I'm not sure we'd get anywhere with the queen without you."

Jasnah's title means something, but he doubts anyone would care if some random foreigner showed up and started asking for help getting to Urithiru. That makes it less a case of a displaced monarch and more a case of a lost vagrant.

"...And I don't think we need to entertain hypotheticals at this juncture." Whatever Shadesmar is, it doesn't sound like a place he wants to go.

"The ship is a great option," she says in a way that is both agreeable and corrective. Her gloved hand closes in a loose fist, and then she points one finger in the air — like making a single, careful point. "But it does rely on the Wandersail actually being in port. It might be at sea already."

The eternal irony of the capable rhetorician. Even as she made an argument, she could already see its holes. The ship would work wonderfully, but its something of an edge-case. It relies on circumstance aligning.

"We confirm whether or not the ship's here. If it is, grand. If not?" A deflated, uncomfortable sigh. "We fly. Thoughts?"

"You say 'we fly' as if you're marching to your death," he says, trying not to find humor in her obvious distaste for it (and failing). She's the one who brought up the option in the first place; if it's truly so horrible, she should have omitted it. So much to learn, Jasnah.

"All right. We can look for your ship." He gives her a once-over, eyes lingering on her abdomen. "Once you're in traveling shape."

She almost rolls her eyes, having hubris enough to think she could travel now if necessary. By boat, at any rate. And she knows that Rysn has certain accommodations aboard the Wandersail for someone whose mobility might differ from the average sailor. Fascinating stuff, really. Using gemstones to...

Jasnah shakes her head, interrupting her own train of thought. Dragging herself back to the topic at hand.

"Inquiries won't have to wait on my recovery," she argues. "You could go down to the docks and find out. Or Jochi might know someone at the harbour."

But that does raise another problem, doesn't it? She glances around the apartment, thinking about the burden and strain this must be putting on the baker. Maybe the worst of the thread is past, sure, but keeping a foreign queen in your front room has got to be disruptive to one's social life. Not to mention keeping Verso on the floor like this. (Yes, she finally stumbles across this consideration.)

"If we're going to be here much longer, maybe we should look into alternative accommodations."

Verso almost rolls his eyes, too. Of course Jasnah wants to send him to look for the ship he doesn't even want to sail on himself, too impatient to actually recover enough to be able to walk down to the harbor herself. He understands the need to feel independent, but— a stab wound is a stab wound. No amount of self-reliance is going to make it heal faster. Honestly, he half-wonders if taking the walk to the alley to find Ivory was pushing it.

"Alternative accommodations?" he asks. Jochi's place is... fine. Not ideal, and admittedly he'd quickly grown attached to having an actual bed with an actual mattress, but it's tolerable. Then again, he's just glad that it has a roof and a door; the bar is pretty low.

"Does Jochi's not meet the royal standards?"

In some ways, Jochi's apartment is nicer than her rooms back in Urithiru. But Jasnah won't volunteer that information. It does occur to her, a little late, that he'd have no way to know. In the tower, she would always come to him. It's only been these last few weeks — on the ship, and here — where any delineation between his space and her space has evaporated.

"It's not that," she argues, getting just a little defensive. Alethi asceticism dies hard. "Rather, I've put him at enough risk just by being here."

And not simply because of any follow-up attempts on her life.

Maybe he'd know what her quarters look like if only she'd invite him there. 🤡

"He doesn't seem to mind," Verso points out—although, admittedly, he hasn't been around Jochi overmuch. Whenever Jochi returns upstairs for the evening, Verso likes to take the opportunity to stretch his legs, breathe some fresh air. His only complaint (all right, second-to-only complaint; the floor really is hurting his back!) about staying here is that, in order to make sure Jasnah is tended to, he has to coop himself up for a large part of the day.

"Did you have somewhere in mind?" He's not necessarily opposed to the idea, but there's practical considerations to think about. "—We'd need to put on our false identities again."

No, Jochi doesn't mind. But Jasnah can't help but wonder what repercussions there could be for a Thaylan national housing an unannounced foreign ruler. More importantly, however, is what happens to if this detour is found out and their association — both members of the Veristitalians — goes public. Jochi has taken such care to hide his literacy, even in a nation that's slightly less strict about it Alethkar.

But Verso has a fair point. Two fair points, really.

"I'll talk to him," she resolves. "Gauge his tolerance for risk. Make sure he understands that there are risks."

It matters to her that Jochi gets a choice.

"You know, putting our false identities back on isn't a terrible idea even if we stay put."

Was Jasnah a big fan of being married and expecting? Not at all. But, as with the Windrunner Option, she can see logic even when it's inconvenient to her.

It isn't? he nearly asks, because Verso's been operating under the assumption that she absolutely hated those identities. It had all been for naught, anyway; Jasnah's true identity had been sussed out very quickly, perhaps from the very start.

He's also, personally, a little less certain about using that story than before. It had been weeks ago, and he hadn't had any particular feeling for Jasnah beyond what he feels for any beautiful woman. Now, though— things have shifted, and he imagines it might be a little more difficult to pretend that they have exactly the sort of relationship that he wishes they had.

"Hm," he says, casual. "You miss Geneviève that much?"

Jasnah shakes her head, clearly uninterested in taking the mantle of wife back up again. Still. An established ruse is an established ruse, complete with boundaries already negotiated and understood. The longer they remain in the city, the more likely it is that someone will start asking Jochi questions. About the man who keeps leaving by the front door.

She shifts slightly on the divan beside Verso, the movement careful but less guarded than it had been days ago. Close enough now that her shoulder nearly brushes his arm.

"Not exactly," she says, answering with a touch more sincerity than the question requires. "But as things progress, it would be good to stretch my legs. Today was...hard," she admits, after a beat. "And I won't pretend otherwise. Still, I can't remain shut in here day after day."

Another pause. Her hand drifts to her stomach, palm light against the healing wound.

"Maybe I should stay put for now," she allows, anticipating protest. "But eventually I need to be back on my feet. If Jochi agrees we can stay, then we should at least provide him with a story he can tell without improvising under pressure. I would rather choose our lie than be caught correcting someone else's."

For someone who claims to hate prevarication, she's oddly adept at planning out her lies.

"You should definitely stay put for now," he says, taking on the sort of authoritative tone usually reserved for sisters and Expeditioners. There's very little he can claim to be an authority on here, but whether someone should be moving around after a stab wound is one of those few things. "If your wound opens up again, we won't be able to get around taking you to the physician."

She doesn't want to involve more people than necessary, and he understands that. But if it's a choice between her exsanguinating on the floor and looping in another, even if possibly untrustworthy, person, he knows which he'd choose. 'Life before death', isn't it?

"You can tell whatever story you want once you're well enough to go out." He'd prefer not to pretend to be the doting husband of someone who couldn't desire that less, but he doesn't know how to express that without being even more obvious than he must already be, so— fine. Whatever backstory suits her.

It's his tone that draws her attention first. Not the words themselves, but the way he says them — clear, decisive, authoritative. Just enough to make her look twice.

Jasnah shifts on the divan, posture reorienting. A shoulder angles in. One knee tucks. She ends half-turned toward him, close in the unremarkable way of people who have been sharing space for some time now. Not closer than they were in the streets, or on the narrow stairs. But close enough to see the fine texture of his scar, the uneven shadow of stubble at his jaw. Close enough to notice...

Huh.

Her head tilts, interest sharpening. Almost absentmindedly, she edges a fraction closer. Then she reaches out, fingertips hovering just shy of his temple. After a brief hesitation, her fingers slide lightly into his hair, careful, testing, easing back the side part with the gentlest pressure. It's an intimate gesture, but not a dramatic one; more curious than anything else. And there, at the roots, she sees it clearly for the first time. Not salt-and-pepper. Pale hair, growing in. She'd mistaken his two-toned hair for something similar to Adolin and Renarin's lineage.

She pauses, studying it, thumb brushing once, unconsciously smoothing.

"I..." Her voice comes softer than usual, like she's trying to land on the correct tone. "Do you dye your hair?"

There's no judgment in it. Only that familiar, incisive curiosity. If anything, it carries a faint note of recognition. Jasnah understands the impulse to curate one's appearance. To control the visible story. She's been without her usual cosmetics, her careful braids, her armor of presentation for over a week now.

Perhaps that, too, makes her small exploration feel a little more permitted.

Jasnah shifts closer, and he holds his breath. He can feel the heat of her fingers as she reaches out, hand close enough that he could turn his head and press his mouth against the palm of her hand if she gave even one indication that she might allow it—

Do you dye your hair, she asks, and he visibly deflates, laughing softly and a little ruefully. At himself, really. A little you fucking idiot. What did he think, that she'd been suddenly overcome with desire for him in the last five seconds?

He doesn't lean into the touch; he doesn't let himself enjoy it at all. He interlaces his fingers in his lap, an alternative to sitting on his hands. "Yeah," he admits, gaze drifting to the side. "I guess it's grown out since I got here, huh?"

She hums. A quiet, thoughtful hmm lodged low in her throat. Curiosity carries her a fraction further, fingertips combing through the stark white threads against the black. She catalogues the contrast with a scholarly instinct, even as she deliberately swallows the questions that follow. Immortality complicates appearances. Does his true age manifest selectively? Was the white somehow the truth all along, even before his condition? A memory surfaces, too close and too pointed, and she lets it sink back out of reach.

"A little," she confirms. "As hair tends to do."

Then the moment shifts. Her curiosity resolves into something more practical, more controlled. She replaced her exploratory touch with something neater and more purposeful — carefully smoothing the side part she disturbed, setting the strands back where they belong. Her thumb grazes the shell of his ear as she tucks a wave into place, the contact brief but precise, as if restoring order was the natural conclusion of...whatever this was.

Her hand falls away at last, palm settling flat against the cushion between them. Jasnah studies him with a slight tilt of her head, expression composed and untroubled. Whatever just passed between them doesn't register as transgression or awkwardness. After braids plaited and bandages changed, after days of shared space and quiet dependence, the boundary has already shifted. Blurred by trust.

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