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.
She hadn't meant to say it, he suddenly realizes, and it begs the question of just how many things she's held back from saying because she wasn't distracted enough. It's hypocritical considering all the words he's let die in his throat before they ever made it out of his mouth, but he can't help feeling dismayed. Surely he's proven himself as someone she can talk to freely. Hell, he's told her things he's never told anyone else, things that felt like he might as well have been stripped down and standing naked in front of her for how exposing they were.
"I said that you were fascinating," he reminds her, "and you said 'not like this'."
If it were him being questioned right now, he knows how he'd respond: deflect, distance, redirect. He'd say something flippant and move on, and the conversational topic would die with him. Reluctant to allow her to do the same before he's gotten to say his piece, he doesn't wait for her to answer. He can take an educated guess at what she'd meant.
"You don't really believe that, do you?" He tilts his head, frowning. "You should know, Jasnah, that what you can do is the least interesting thing about you."
Power is an illusion of perception. And Jasnah believes she's adept at sculpting that perception. Oh, she's no Lightweaver. Her tools are so much more pedestrian than that — confidence, competence, and just enough conventionality to be taken seriously. She is a collection of books. She is a creature made up of philosophies and guiding principles. Remove one, and the rest come crashing down around her head.
What she does — what she can do — is all she is. And in this she is so much like her father, chasing legacy.
Her thumb (right, bare) settles in the crook of Verso's littlest finger. She can't figure out how his regeneration could possibly work. Stormlight, she understands. Jasnah could lay out a whole lecture on why a big breath of stormlight could stitch her wound right up. Good as new. However, she can't explain him. Maybe that's the point.
Something makes her smile, but wry and mirthless and a little bit sad. It always hurts to catch yourself falling prey to the same mistakes you accuse others of making.
"You're right. Defining someone simply by what they can do results in a — a reduction from the infinite variety that is personhood," she answers. Quoting something, clearly.
It's not a bad quote. All the same, he shakes his head. "You do this thing," he notes, softly, trying not to sound accusatory, "where you word things like—"
How does he describe it? She'd done it in the restaurant, too, when she'd discussed the difficulty returning from the Cognitive Realm. She'd phrased it as if... "Like it's an academic discussion." Like she has no personal stake in it, like she's simply an observer.
Very lightly, so gently that it could easily be mistaken for an accident or an involuntary physical reaction, he curls his little finger around her thumb. "I'm not talking about 'someone'. I'm talking about you."
Again: he's right. But the Philosophy of Aspiration is the bedrock of both her life and her work (is there any difference between the two?) and such an ideological mistress demanded that every action, every choice, should be in service of a greater ideal. The greater good, at any cost. The first and easiest cost will always be herself. Remove the heart from the equation at the jump. Approach every fork in the road with a scholar's duty to analyze what went wrong. What could go wrong. And make the best choice accordingly. For the Kholin family, for Alethkar, for Roshar, for the Cosmere.
He's right, but she won't look at that fact for too too long. It's not ready to be confronted. She doesn't want to confront it, anyway. She shies away.
"I'm an academic," she seethes a little in her response. Frustration sliding into place, covering the gaps that might otherwise be left vulnerable by his conclusion. "It's only fitting that I should discuss things like one."
But her hand reacts to his light, gentle movement. She's too smart to think it an accident but too comforted to spurn it. She does do him one better, though, by converting their loose grip on one another into something firmer — ostensibly because she wants help walking back to the divan. And just like she's been doing aloud, she hides her personal stake in something overtly practical.
Her reaction is less than ideal, and whatever confidence he'd had in saying what he did deflates like a sad balloon. Perhaps he'd thought they were closer than they were, and he's just being presumptuous. He helps her back to the divan, sitting her back down, and hesitates for a moment. It feels as if—despite all his best intentions—he can't help but do everything wrong with her. A tough pill to swallow for a perfectionist.
"Sorry," he says, although he's not sure what he's sorry for. "I didn't mean anything by it."
Then, as a quick excuse to abscond, he jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm going to go soak that rag so Jochi doesn't think there's been a murder."
Her head and her heart are a snarl. A wicked dislocation — where he can do everything right, and that very rightness drives her further inward, away from the parts of herself that might, if indulged, want more. That's the true point of friction: every measure of care she invests in herself is care withheld from elsewhere. A calculated, cold altruism she has long mistaken for virtue. Unsustainable.
She bites back a retort. Why say something if you don't mean it? A rhetorical question, and one that neatly underlines how little she believes these milquetoast retractions of his
And yet — storm it — she still feels foul, watching that hunted, darting quality to his reactions. As though he is running a maze she laid out. Guilt pricks at her for hearing his apology. She doesn't know how to return it gently. Or whether she even should.
So she busies herself checking on Ivory instead. Something to occupy her hands now that they are no longer holding his.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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"I said that you were fascinating," he reminds her, "and you said 'not like this'."
If it were him being questioned right now, he knows how he'd respond: deflect, distance, redirect. He'd say something flippant and move on, and the conversational topic would die with him. Reluctant to allow her to do the same before he's gotten to say his piece, he doesn't wait for her to answer. He can take an educated guess at what she'd meant.
"You don't really believe that, do you?" He tilts his head, frowning. "You should know, Jasnah, that what you can do is the least interesting thing about you."
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What she does — what she can do — is all she is. And in this she is so much like her father, chasing legacy.
Her thumb (right, bare) settles in the crook of Verso's littlest finger. She can't figure out how his regeneration could possibly work. Stormlight, she understands. Jasnah could lay out a whole lecture on why a big breath of stormlight could stitch her wound right up. Good as new. However, she can't explain him. Maybe that's the point.
Something makes her smile, but wry and mirthless and a little bit sad. It always hurts to catch yourself falling prey to the same mistakes you accuse others of making.
"You're right. Defining someone simply by what they can do results in a — a reduction from the infinite variety that is personhood," she answers. Quoting something, clearly.
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How does he describe it? She'd done it in the restaurant, too, when she'd discussed the difficulty returning from the Cognitive Realm. She'd phrased it as if... "Like it's an academic discussion." Like she has no personal stake in it, like she's simply an observer.
Very lightly, so gently that it could easily be mistaken for an accident or an involuntary physical reaction, he curls his little finger around her thumb. "I'm not talking about 'someone'. I'm talking about you."
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He's right, but she won't look at that fact for too too long. It's not ready to be confronted. She doesn't want to confront it, anyway. She shies away.
"I'm an academic," she seethes a little in her response. Frustration sliding into place, covering the gaps that might otherwise be left vulnerable by his conclusion. "It's only fitting that I should discuss things like one."
But her hand reacts to his light, gentle movement. She's too smart to think it an accident but too comforted to spurn it. She does do him one better, though, by converting their loose grip on one another into something firmer — ostensibly because she wants help walking back to the divan. And just like she's been doing aloud, she hides her personal stake in something overtly practical.
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"Sorry," he says, although he's not sure what he's sorry for. "I didn't mean anything by it."
Then, as a quick excuse to abscond, he jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm going to go soak that rag so Jochi doesn't think there's been a murder."
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She bites back a retort. Why say something if you don't mean it? A rhetorical question, and one that neatly underlines how little she believes these milquetoast retractions of his
And yet — storm it — she still feels foul, watching that hunted, darting quality to his reactions. As though he is running a maze she laid out. Guilt pricks at her for hearing his apology. She doesn't know how to return it gently. Or whether she even should.
So she busies herself checking on Ivory instead. Something to occupy her hands now that they are no longer holding his.
"You apologize too much."
Says the woman who apologizes far too little.
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