Storms, but she continues to grow more accustomed to him. From lunch, to the return commute, to the requisite proximity as he helps her up the stairs. And although she requires far, far less direct support today than she has on other occasions, there is something almost more intimate about letting Verso take two or three steps ahead of her— about the way he turns, offers his hands, waits to catch her whenever she inevitably needs their borrowed stability mid-step.
By the time they reach the top stair, she is faintly out of breath, colour high in her cheeks. The divan — her plush prison bench for most of these weeks — is an immediate relief. She sinks into it in a half-seated, half-leaning sprawl, stifling a yawn behind her glove.
However. Verso's warning, offered over his shoulder, has her heaving herself back to her feet with a low groan. If she must, she will follow him straight into the kitchenette to make her intentions known — pausing only to grab her notebook.
"Dessendre," she grinds his name out in a stilted command. "I intend to see each and every part."
With a rag and kitchen knife in hand (sorry, Jochi), Verso turns his attention to Jasnah across the way. She's close enough to the divan that he doesn't rush to be near her, but he does keep a careful eye on her, just in case.
She's certain whatever he's said about sudden movements has been wise but ultimately impractical. It helps — naturally — that Jasnah's the one who gets to define practicality in this moment.
She puts a hand on the end-tables for stability and males a point of watching him from where she stands. See? No risk of falling.
"Don't spare me the hard parts," she cautions him. Knowing even as she says it how silly it sounds. The hardest part remains his.
"Hard isn't the word I would use," he says, because it isn't hard to get hurt. He's done it a million times. "—Ugly, maybe."
It's the part where you have to watch the sausage get made instead of just enjoying it; he can't imagine it being at all appealing. But he can't stop her from watching—sure, he could scurry away to do it elsewhere, but she'd just follow him and risk hurting herself—so he only sighs and lays the rag out on the counter to soak up the blood. He flattens his left hand atop it, fingers splayed out, and lines the blade of the kitchen knife up above the knuckle of his little finger.
"It's not as bad as it looks," he warns, although there's a bit of hesitance on his face as he performs a few practice swings with the knife, before—
"Fuck, fuck—" He quickly presses the rag to the wound he's made, holding his hand close to his chest out of instinct. As he ruins one of Jochi's belongings with a steady stream of blood, he turns away from Jasnah and hunches over his mangled hand, some sort of involuntary protective inclination. "Putain."
Squeezing his eyes shut, he wills the wound to stop bleeding. The gushing stream slows and then stops entirely, and with a couple deep breaths, he straightens up and sets the red-soaked rag down. There's still a little blood on the counter where his disembodied pinky lays, and he makes a perfunctory attempt at cleaning it up before raising his hand.
She drifts from end-table to chair to kitchenette doorway — a hand touching each as she passes, an unspoken promise that she has something to cling to if required. It's not lost on Jasnah that her pride has signed her up for witnessing something she's unlikely to enjoy.
He tells her it's not as bad as it looks. She can't discern whether it's reassurance or warning. Whichever it is, she doesn't believe him. But her temple tilts against the door jamb and she watches with the same cautious silence one might watch a foreign ritual. The rag on the counter. The stretch of his palm against the fabric. The knife's edge — blessedly sharp, she assumes.
It takes a heroic amount of restraint and discipline not to wince, not to cringe, not to shut her eyes against the falling blade and the dull thwock. She doesn't need a language lesson to understand the electric-hot pain and visceral instinct behind his words. Remarkably, even now, she tucks them away for future reference.
Verso angles away from her and (without thinking) she takes a step in his direction. This time, it's not selfish voyeurism but rather a twisting stomach put worry. Care and concern for his pain and how it curls his shoulders that she hadn't anticipated given the rational understanding that he'll be fine. In fact, she mutters his name — Verso, proper — before hanging back with her hand on the doorway. Swallowing down human instinct.
A glance at the rag. A glance at the little finger — severed from its host. Jasnah has watched men boil and burn to death. She and Ivory have severed the spritwebs of enemies, leaving their eyes burnt out and greyed. But all of it seems clean compared to this. This, a wound that even if he couldn't heal it would be negligible in the grander map of humane experience. A wound that — when you think about it — isn't half as severe as her own. Still, an uncomfortable anxiety roils through her blood. Her eyes watch him. Cautious.
Bizarrely, absurdly, her mind is blank except for some archaic snippet of Iriali religious belief. That just as a little finger is one part of a greater whole, each person is one piece of a divine body.
"What happens now?"
Storms, but she's fighting for her composure. It's minor and most mightn't notice it at all. But Verso has lived in her company long enough.
"Will you," she pauses, tongue rolling inside her cheek as she chooses her words, "grow a new one?"
Even after healing, there's a little lingering pain that makes him grind his teeth. It's nothing compared to the litany of hurts he's endured in the past; he's been chewed up and digested, torn apart at the torso, smashed and crushed, vomited himself to death. A little finger is nothing, really, in the grand scheme of things.
So, he laughs. A little breathless, a little raspy, but a laugh.
"I'd rather not. Regrowing feels..." It's hard to explain. Uncomfortable. Itchy. A bit painful. Like the sore discomfort of a tooth growing in, but on a different body part entirely. "Weird," he settles on.
"Besides," he says, "this finger's still perfectly good."
The disembodied pinky finger on the counter twitches a few times, then inches across the stone. Like a worm.
She notes his preference in silence. Regrowing is weird. Dimly, she remembers a story about one of Stormblessed's bridgemen — the Herdazian, what was his name? — who'd been years without his arm but managed to regrow once he became a Windrunner. Unheard of, really. A wound so old and settled and sunk into one's Identity is ordinarily impossible to heal —
— Without thinking, she lays a palm on her stomach.
How much of himself has Verso regrown, she wonders. What bits of him are versions two, three, four, five, five hundred? With a guilty flicker in her eyes, she finds herself wondering whether he's a bit like a fabrial whose gears and mechanisms have been swapped so often that none of the original guts remain.
By contrast, confronting his traveling little finger is somehow less bizarre. Without thinking, running on pure curiosity, she blurts: "Do you feel what it feels?"
So, yes. He can feel what it feels. There's no biological, scientific basis to it, surely—no part of him is normal. He can keep going with a decapitated head, a bisected body, missing organs. All part and parcel of not being real. Of existing with the sole purpose to keep existing.
That's not worth sharing right now, though. Or maybe ever. His pinky finger waves at her.
Slowly, slowly the panic in her stomach settles. As visual evidence of his pain ebbs away, so too does the knee-jerk worry that had caught her so incredibly by surprise.
Jasnah makes no sudden movements as she carefully crosses the narrow space — reaching for the counter's lip as she sidles up next to him. Next to his finger. Next to the scene of the butchery.
"...May I?" She asks, lifting a (very attached!) finger of her own — indicating perhaps that she'd like to touch or prod or poke the pinky. The pinky that's waving at her.
Verso says nothing, but he leans against the counter with an expectant expression, seemingly unaware of or unwilling to recognize how disturbing it might be to watch someone's disembodied finger move on its own. While he does, the aforementioned disembodied finger hops across the counter to meet Jasnah, 'nodding' by bending a couple times in quick succession.
At first, she tries to convince herself that his finger is like some kind of spren. A fingerspren or an appendagespren or any other of the small little emotion— and naturespren that can pop up from time to time. Not the sapient kind, but the kind that simply exist.
But then — just as quickly — she disabuses herself of the thought. She recognizes it for what it is: a coping mechanism. A mind trying had to fit what she's seeing into some familiar paradigm. Replacing fact with belief.
Exhaling, she reaches out and touches the tip of her index finger to the tip of his pinky. A light—but—present pressure held in place before dragging down to the first knuckle. She'd expected it to be cold to the touch. Or (at any rate) cooling.
It's weird of him to be into this. He recognizes that on some rational, pragmatic level. On an emotional level, though, it feels like she's touching him, willingly and readily, and— it has been an extremely long time since he felt another person's fingers against his for any reason other than practicality. He swallows.
"Cool, huh?"
As in fascinating, interesting, exciting. The finger still feels warm and alive. It presses back against hers, playful.
"One time I made one of my fingers crawl into Monoco's bedroll. I didn't know he could scream so high-pitched."
— Because Jasnah is ignorant of that particular linguistic shift for cool. She taps the edge of her nail against a knuckle. And then gives the pinky a slow, experimental squeeze.
"Could you stay separated indefinitely?"
She wouldn't want him to. But the question steals across her all the same. Seemingly, he can stay separated long enough to play a prank without any concerns or considerations.
Girl, you are so weird. But then again, he's the one playing pranks with his disembodied fingers, so maybe they both have something to answer for. Regardless—
"Sure," he says with a shrug. "It's great for multitasking."
To her thin, thin credit — the shock has dissipated just enough that she doesn't even shiver grimly at the implication. And (perhaps a bit problematically) she finds herself looping back to the notion of spren. Sending a finger, a hand, an eyeball (?) off to snoop a room like she might occasionally send Ivory.
Having built up enough courage, she at long last and rather inevitably plucks the pinky off the counter and sets it in her gloved hand.
"You're fascinating," she mutters. At first blush it might feel forced after the day's earlier Lecture on compliments and praise, but the reality is that she's so distracted in her thoughts that it can't be anything but impulsive.
There's a little pang of melancholy in his chest, of wishing he could be fascinating for something that's his instead of every interesting thing about him being owned by someone else. There's no point, though, in dwelling on things that can't be—although he certainly loves to do it—so he pushes the thought out of his mind, smiling faintly and ruefully.
...And she's too busy staring at the little finger — tilting her palm just barely — to notice the tension in his reaction. Jasnah turns to face away from the counter, setting her hip against it's edge. She isn't ordinarily a leaner; however, her injury and subsequent need for a little extra support has turned her into someone eager to take advantage of nearby stable surfaces.
"Not like this," she counters. Not quite thinking through her words. Just speaking, unfiltered, as she finally tears her attention back to him.
Well. The rest of him.
"What about now — right now. Does it still...hurt?"
Mm. Not like this. Verso takes that comment, files it away in his brain for later inspection and argument.
As for the pain— yeah, it does. It's not unbearable by any means, but there's still an unpleasant ache at his knuckle, where the finger should be attached. He doesn't want Jasnah to feel bad about having essentially asked him to do this, though, so he answers with a decisive, "Not at all. It barely hurt to begin with."
He mops up a streak of blood on the counter that he'd missed.
There's a sound in the back of her throat. She doesn't believe him. Or — well — she could have believed the first statement (that it doesn't hurt still) but he oversells it by suggesting it didn't hurt initially either. These are the little lies that add up to patterns. Tells, really. And although she doesn't consciously hitch on it just now, it sifts away to the growing sediment in her profile for him.
"Yes," she confirms, holding out her hand and offering his own finger back to Verso.
Verso reaches out, the fingers that are still attached grazing Jasnah's palm as he plucks his pinky from her grasp. The most unpleasant part is of course the actual injury, but reattaching is a close second; he can't help but make a trepidatious face as be lines the finger up with the hole at his knuckle. Gritting his teeth, he presses the finger back in place—
A litany of swears tumble out of his mouth, fuckshitputain and so on, as he feels the tissue of his hand reaching out for its relative, connections between muscles and nerve and bone reforming too quickly to be comfortable.
—and then it's over, and he lets out a sigh of relief.
"It's as easy as that," he says, wiggling his now-attached pinky finger.
Her eyes had been fixed on the spot where his pinky met his hand. As if she could glean something from the moment — imagining, maybe, what's happening on the scale of axi and tissue. She can't help but note that of all the sharp, short words that have tumbled out of his mouth — most haven't been the ones he's taught her. Is he holding out on her? Maybe. Likely. At the very least he's absolutely dodging the truth about the pain he feels.
Hmm. She slides a half-foot closer and reaches for his hand. This time, she doesn't ask for permission before touching him — grip closing losely on his wrist, tugging his palm upwards so she can examine the finger returned to its rightful place. Just as before, she traces a line from fingertip to knuckle, like she's looking for a seam or scar.
"Why are you lying about how much it hurts?" She asks, gaze still buried in his hand.
It's even better being touched by her with his finger attached. Of course it is; he can feel the warmth of her fingers around his wrist, the brush of her fingertip down the length of his little finger. His heartbeat picks up tempo, and he turns his hand over as she inspects it, suddenly self-conscious of the piano calluses on his own fingertips.
The sensation of having someone's hand so close to his even for purely scientific reasons is so thrilling that he barely catches her callout. It takes a moment for his mind to catch up, but finally he says, "—I've had worse."
A long, slow exhale through her nose. Not quite laughter — the situation doesn't quite call for laughter — but it's softer than incredulity and harsher than a chuckle. What tough reputation? She's learned enough by now to realize he wouldn't like her suggesting that he hasn't got anything near such a reputation with her. But it's kind of his own fault, really, given how initially he'd convinced her he was some soft city-dwelling musician. Not that same creature turned survivalist.
Besides, she's the daughter of one warlord and the niece of another. Her scale for tough reputations is a bit hard to tilt.
"Tell me there isn't, say, dozens of little left-behind fingers rattling around the Continent."
Free-range. Perhaps abandoned in favour of regrowth.
The not-laugh should be offensive, but it isn't. He's spent a long time with a protective carapace around him, so long that it often felt impossible to chisel down to the soft flesh below. It's almost a relief that she doesn't see him that way. That she thinks of him how he should be, how he would've been. Maybe how he can be, now.
So, he doesn't meet it with a scoff or a frown but with a soft laugh of his own. "It's entirely possible they've started their own society by now."
—A pause, then, as his mind echoes back to what she'd said earlier. "Hey. What did you mean, 'not like this'?"
Oh. What a ludicrous, haunting thought. She'd also laugh, except she's caught ever-so-almost off-guard by his question.
Her first reaction feels a little...circuitous. What does he mean what did she mean? Jasnah had been so caught up in the spectacle (exactly as he'd intended for to be!) that for one rare jot she hadn't been running her usually strict and careful self-audit on every word and implication.
So, her pause is legible. She flexes her gloved fingers against his wrist — a little one, two, three rhythm not unlike when she taps her fingers on a book cover or a tabletop — and combs back through their exchange in an attempt to pinpoint exactly what he's asking after. Her search comes up dry.
Frowning, she confesses her confusion with a soft: "Hmm?" But doesn't look up from his hand.
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By the time they reach the top stair, she is faintly out of breath, colour high in her cheeks. The divan — her plush prison bench for most of these weeks — is an immediate relief. She sinks into it in a half-seated, half-leaning sprawl, stifling a yawn behind her glove.
However. Verso's warning, offered over his shoulder, has her heaving herself back to her feet with a low groan. If she must, she will follow him straight into the kitchenette to make her intentions known — pausing only to grab her notebook.
"Dessendre," she grinds his name out in a stilted command. "I intend to see each and every part."
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With a rag and kitchen knife in hand (sorry, Jochi), Verso turns his attention to Jasnah across the way. She's close enough to the divan that he doesn't rush to be near her, but he does keep a careful eye on her, just in case.
"What did I say about sudden movements?"
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She puts a hand on the end-tables for stability and males a point of watching him from where she stands. See? No risk of falling.
"Don't spare me the hard parts," she cautions him. Knowing even as she says it how silly it sounds. The hardest part remains his.
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It's the part where you have to watch the sausage get made instead of just enjoying it; he can't imagine it being at all appealing. But he can't stop her from watching—sure, he could scurry away to do it elsewhere, but she'd just follow him and risk hurting herself—so he only sighs and lays the rag out on the counter to soak up the blood. He flattens his left hand atop it, fingers splayed out, and lines the blade of the kitchen knife up above the knuckle of his little finger.
"It's not as bad as it looks," he warns, although there's a bit of hesitance on his face as he performs a few practice swings with the knife, before—
"Fuck, fuck—" He quickly presses the rag to the wound he's made, holding his hand close to his chest out of instinct. As he ruins one of Jochi's belongings with a steady stream of blood, he turns away from Jasnah and hunches over his mangled hand, some sort of involuntary protective inclination. "Putain."
Squeezing his eyes shut, he wills the wound to stop bleeding. The gushing stream slows and then stops entirely, and with a couple deep breaths, he straightens up and sets the red-soaked rag down. There's still a little blood on the counter where his disembodied pinky lays, and he makes a perfunctory attempt at cleaning it up before raising his hand.
"...Pinkies up."
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He tells her it's not as bad as it looks. She can't discern whether it's reassurance or warning. Whichever it is, she doesn't believe him. But her temple tilts against the door jamb and she watches with the same cautious silence one might watch a foreign ritual. The rag on the counter. The stretch of his palm against the fabric. The knife's edge — blessedly sharp, she assumes.
It takes a heroic amount of restraint and discipline not to wince, not to cringe, not to shut her eyes against the falling blade and the dull thwock. She doesn't need a language lesson to understand the electric-hot pain and visceral instinct behind his words. Remarkably, even now, she tucks them away for future reference.
Verso angles away from her and (without thinking) she takes a step in his direction. This time, it's not selfish voyeurism but rather a twisting stomach put worry. Care and concern for his pain and how it curls his shoulders that she hadn't anticipated given the rational understanding that he'll be fine. In fact, she mutters his name — Verso, proper — before hanging back with her hand on the doorway. Swallowing down human instinct.
A glance at the rag. A glance at the little finger — severed from its host. Jasnah has watched men boil and burn to death. She and Ivory have severed the spritwebs of enemies, leaving their eyes burnt out and greyed. But all of it seems clean compared to this. This, a wound that even if he couldn't heal it would be negligible in the grander map of humane experience. A wound that — when you think about it — isn't half as severe as her own. Still, an uncomfortable anxiety roils through her blood. Her eyes watch him. Cautious.
Bizarrely, absurdly, her mind is blank except for some archaic snippet of Iriali religious belief. That just as a little finger is one part of a greater whole, each person is one piece of a divine body.
"What happens now?"
Storms, but she's fighting for her composure. It's minor and most mightn't notice it at all. But Verso has lived in her company long enough.
"Will you," she pauses, tongue rolling inside her cheek as she chooses her words, "grow a new one?"
Or does the old one reattach?
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So, he laughs. A little breathless, a little raspy, but a laugh.
"I'd rather not. Regrowing feels..." It's hard to explain. Uncomfortable. Itchy. A bit painful. Like the sore discomfort of a tooth growing in, but on a different body part entirely. "Weird," he settles on.
"Besides," he says, "this finger's still perfectly good."
The disembodied pinky finger on the counter twitches a few times, then inches across the stone. Like a worm.
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— Without thinking, she lays a palm on her stomach.
How much of himself has Verso regrown, she wonders. What bits of him are versions two, three, four, five, five hundred? With a guilty flicker in her eyes, she finds herself wondering whether he's a bit like a fabrial whose gears and mechanisms have been swapped so often that none of the original guts remain.
By contrast, confronting his traveling little finger is somehow less bizarre. Without thinking, running on pure curiosity, she blurts: "Do you feel what it feels?"
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So, yes. He can feel what it feels. There's no biological, scientific basis to it, surely—no part of him is normal. He can keep going with a decapitated head, a bisected body, missing organs. All part and parcel of not being real. Of existing with the sole purpose to keep existing.
That's not worth sharing right now, though. Or maybe ever. His pinky finger waves at her.
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Slowly, slowly the panic in her stomach settles. As visual evidence of his pain ebbs away, so too does the knee-jerk worry that had caught her so incredibly by surprise.
Jasnah makes no sudden movements as she carefully crosses the narrow space — reaching for the counter's lip as she sidles up next to him. Next to his finger. Next to the scene of the butchery.
"...May I?" She asks, lifting a (very attached!) finger of her own — indicating perhaps that she'd like to touch or prod or poke the pinky. The pinky that's waving at her.
(Oh. Another roil in her stomach.)
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But then — just as quickly — she disabuses herself of the thought. She recognizes it for what it is: a coping mechanism. A mind trying had to fit what she's seeing into some familiar paradigm. Replacing fact with belief.
Exhaling, she reaches out and touches the tip of her index finger to the tip of his pinky. A light—but—present pressure held in place before dragging down to the first knuckle. She'd expected it to be cold to the touch. Or (at any rate) cooling.
Huh.
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"Cool, huh?"
As in fascinating, interesting, exciting. The finger still feels warm and alive. It presses back against hers, playful.
"One time I made one of my fingers crawl into Monoco's bedroll. I didn't know he could scream so high-pitched."
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— Because Jasnah is ignorant of that particular linguistic shift for cool. She taps the edge of her nail against a knuckle. And then gives the pinky a slow, experimental squeeze.
"Could you stay separated indefinitely?"
She wouldn't want him to. But the question steals across her all the same. Seemingly, he can stay separated long enough to play a prank without any concerns or considerations.
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"Sure," he says with a shrug. "It's great for multitasking."
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Having built up enough courage, she at long last and rather inevitably plucks the pinky off the counter and sets it in her gloved hand.
"You're fascinating," she mutters. At first blush it might feel forced after the day's earlier Lecture on compliments and praise, but the reality is that she's so distracted in her thoughts that it can't be anything but impulsive.
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"Thanks." A cant of his head. "So are you."
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"Not like this," she counters. Not quite thinking through her words. Just speaking, unfiltered, as she finally tears her attention back to him.
Well. The rest of him.
"What about now — right now. Does it still...hurt?"
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As for the pain— yeah, it does. It's not unbearable by any means, but there's still an unpleasant ache at his knuckle, where the finger should be attached. He doesn't want Jasnah to feel bad about having essentially asked him to do this, though, so he answers with a decisive, "Not at all. It barely hurt to begin with."
He mops up a streak of blood on the counter that he'd missed.
"Do you want to watch me reattach it?"
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"Yes," she confirms, holding out her hand and offering his own finger back to Verso.
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A litany of swears tumble out of his mouth, fuckshitputain and so on, as he feels the tissue of his hand reaching out for its relative, connections between muscles and nerve and bone reforming too quickly to be comfortable.
—and then it's over, and he lets out a sigh of relief.
"It's as easy as that," he says, wiggling his now-attached pinky finger.
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Her eyes had been fixed on the spot where his pinky met his hand. As if she could glean something from the moment — imagining, maybe, what's happening on the scale of axi and tissue. She can't help but note that of all the sharp, short words that have tumbled out of his mouth — most haven't been the ones he's taught her. Is he holding out on her? Maybe. Likely. At the very least he's absolutely dodging the truth about the pain he feels.
Hmm. She slides a half-foot closer and reaches for his hand. This time, she doesn't ask for permission before touching him — grip closing losely on his wrist, tugging his palm upwards so she can examine the finger returned to its rightful place. Just as before, she traces a line from fingertip to knuckle, like she's looking for a seam or scar.
"Why are you lying about how much it hurts?" She asks, gaze still buried in his hand.
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The sensation of having someone's hand so close to his even for purely scientific reasons is so thrilling that he barely catches her callout. It takes a moment for his mind to catch up, but finally he says, "—I've had worse."
As truthful as he can get.
"Don't want to mar my tough reputation."
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A long, slow exhale through her nose. Not quite laughter — the situation doesn't quite call for laughter — but it's softer than incredulity and harsher than a chuckle. What tough reputation? She's learned enough by now to realize he wouldn't like her suggesting that he hasn't got anything near such a reputation with her. But it's kind of his own fault, really, given how initially he'd convinced her he was some soft city-dwelling musician. Not that same creature turned survivalist.
Besides, she's the daughter of one warlord and the niece of another. Her scale for tough reputations is a bit hard to tilt.
"Tell me there isn't, say, dozens of little left-behind fingers rattling around the Continent."
Free-range. Perhaps abandoned in favour of regrowth.
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So, he doesn't meet it with a scoff or a frown but with a soft laugh of his own. "It's entirely possible they've started their own society by now."
—A pause, then, as his mind echoes back to what she'd said earlier. "Hey. What did you mean, 'not like this'?"
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Her first reaction feels a little...circuitous. What does he mean what did she mean? Jasnah had been so caught up in the spectacle (exactly as he'd intended for to be!) that for one rare jot she hadn't been running her usually strict and careful self-audit on every word and implication.
So, her pause is legible. She flexes her gloved fingers against his wrist — a little one, two, three rhythm not unlike when she taps her fingers on a book cover or a tabletop — and combs back through their exchange in an attempt to pinpoint exactly what he's asking after. Her search comes up dry.
Frowning, she confesses her confusion with a soft: "Hmm?" But doesn't look up from his hand.
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