recreatable | open post.

She stills for half a beat of recalibration. Then Jasnah exhales, slow and controlled, and complies without an ounce if reluctance.

Wordlessly, she shifts on the divan, careful of her wound and turning so her back faces him. The movement is deliberate, almost prim. She adjusts the fall of her braid over one shoulder to clear the other. A small, practical gesture that nonetheless gives him a silent indication of exactly where she expects him to begin.

Jasnah folds her hands in her lap and stares straight ahead. Only now does a thin note of embarrassment settle into her pulse.

"... You've done this before?" She asks just to fill the space between now and when she'll first feel contact on her skin.

If he'd been self-conscious about the calluses before, he's now acutely aware of them as he places a hand on her free shoulder, very carefully nudging the fabric of her clothing out of the way—not much, just enough to expose the muscles.

"—To another human person?" he asks, which is probably answer enough. No, he's never done this before. Never had cause to. He's only ever dealt with his own tense muscles, but surely it can't be that hard to apply it to someone else.

"...Yeah," he lies as he presses a thumb into the side of the bony knob at the base of her neck. "Of course I have."

Right. Sure. Okay.

His question and the answer he supplies don't line up at all, and not for the first time Jasnah finds herself wondering why he tells this particular species of lie. Have others believed them? Is it a habit grown from too many years of isolation, a way of smoothing over moments before they sharpen? Or worse — does he expect her to politely accept it, to play along for the sake of ease?

For now, it doesn't matter. She doesn't need to resolve it this instant.

What does require her attention is the simple act of sitting a little straighter, of keeping her torso upright instead of letting herself collapse into the cushion. The first tentative push into her muscles draws a quiet, nasal sound from the back of her throat — not quite a complaint, more an acknowledgment that there is indeed something there to be worked through.

"I forgot," she says, voice kept even, "what this felt like. Tight muscles. Another benefit of stormlight I've been taking for granted these past six years."

Her shoulders roll — brief, economical, a small recalibration. Without quite meaning to, Jasnah leans a fraction into the pressure of his thumb.

"You can press harder," she tells him.

Verso's heart races at the feeling of another person leaning even a millimeter into his touch, and he feels a bit like a degenerate old man for it, to be taking pleasure in something that should be entirely clinical and dispassionate. He swallows, pressing harder as requested, feeling exploratorily up and down her tight trapezius, the projections of her spine.

"Thanks, by the way," he says after a long silence of diligent work. He doesn't specify what he's expressing gratitude for; she's clever, she'll figure out that it's for listening, for not bombarding him with anxiety-provoking questions. "Felt good to talk about it." Even if it was only in an oblique way with all of the implicating details wiped clean.

His hand travels further down to her shoulder proper, thumb pausing over a knot. "Breathe out," he instructs before pressing down on it.

Jasnah Kholin is not made of stone, no matter how often people say it.

And though her pulse does not race — though she feels no spark, no crackle of heat — she experiences the moment in a way that's far, far from clinical. The pads of his fingers, firm and calloused, rest against her skin with the quiet certainty of something earned. Trust. If his heart is racing, hers is doing the opposite. Slowing, settling, unwinding.

It reminds her of that same morning when he braided her hair: the same steady presence, the same care taken without fanfare. Of the moment she touched his temple the night prior, curious and unguarded, only to find that she had wanted more than she realized — not more in the way people usually mean it, but this. The closeness. The safety of being handled without being claimed.

For once, she doesn't analyze it. She simply lets it happen.

He thanks her and a sound escapes her that's so confused it almost sounds blank: "Oh." Her non-interrogation had been helpful? Useful? "I'm not as good a listener as you are," she admits, echoing him from an earlier night. "But I'm trying."

She does not explain how rarely she's needed to try. How most people simply answer her when she asks. Most people.

Her mouth opens to add something else, but his quiet instruction interrupts her. Breathe out. She does — sharply, a low storms! forced out of her as his thumb finds the knot and presses. The pressure is precise and the muscle feels more tender than she'd anticipated. But it's effective, so she lifts her gloved hand in a quick, wordless spiral. Urging him on.

Don't stop.

No, you're a really good listener is a lie that even Verso can't say with a straight face. She's not. It's all right; he's unaccustomed to being listened to, to having himself be perceived by another person in this way. The mere thrill of being looked at and seen for what he is instead of what someone wants to see is enough.

He does his level best not to find the noise that she makes appealing, focusing on the practical, physical aspects of this rather than the emotional. His fingers are, in fact, very nimble, and he narrows down on the tense fibers in her shoulder, pressing deeply and holding it there.

"Sorry," he breathes out, genuinely feeling a little bad. "One time Monoco did this to me and it hurt so bad I kicked him."

Involuntarily! But a kick all the same. It's painful to release literal decades of tension. He releases the pressure, replacing it with an apologetic smoothing of his thumb over the spot to distract from the pain.

— The tense breath gives way to a dry chuckle. Almost exclusively catalyzed by the image of whatever-it-is she's imagined Monoco to look like and Verso giving that creature a swift, involuntary boot. She extends the both of them the dignity of not asking what muscle group was being worked over that he managed to kick the gestral.

Jasnah shifts. Just a little. Just enough to suggest she's overcome what might have otherwise been the probationary period for this experience, and she's prepared to relax a little more where she sits. Bringing one foot up onto the divan; crooking her elbow over the back. More small ways she removes the responsibility of keeping upright from her abdominals.

"I would have assumed your regeneration would help with your muscle strain, like stormlight does mine."

Can't believe Jasnah is laughing at Monoco getting kicked, what happened to her being a #MonocoRightsActivist?

But he laughs, too, because it was pretty funny. As he does, he fits his hand into the dip of her shoulder blade, offering gentle pressure up and down. "It's like the calluses. I could heal it, but it'd just come back." He is tense literally every second of every day.

—Involuntarily kicking someone is very different from leaving them under a building for a year! Storms!

There's a slight—but-not-unpleasant friction under his fingers. The kind of thing that might accumulate to be too much over time, but for now is fine. Again, she leans into the pressure. A little like a quasi-wild animal, actually allowing herself to enjoy something once the preliminary guard is dropped.

"The callouses I understand. You'd want those to persist, to make the playing more comfortable. Hours and hours of writing makes for much the same conditions — here," she reaches her right hand back, briefly, to let him feel the slightly rougher patch of skin on the inside of her middle finger. Presumably where a pen would sit, day in and day out. This one little spot was gained long before she became a Radiant, and is certainly so sunken into her Identity that it won't heal.

But the tension? Storms. She'll take in stormlight on an average day just to stay awake longer, to ease exhaustion, to fight the cramps in her writing hand if she's been particularly busy. It does surprise her a little that he wouldn't do something similar even if it would just come back.

Verso runs his index across the side of her finger, brief and unindulgent, before he returns back to his work, softening up the hard knots in her muscles as best he can. He's no expert, but he does know the basic concept: seek out tight spots and press real hard.

"You get tired of doing the same thing over and over." Healing the knots in his muscles is a small example of that, but all the same. Verso is sick of repetition. "What was I going to do, heal it every night before I slept on the ground and woke up with it again?"

Yes, she almost answers. But the way he describes it — and even what she witnessed in the kitchenette — reasserts for Jasnah that it's nothing like stormlight. Upon breathing it in, healing is automatic. Quick. A sip of it would be enough.

She's about to explain this difference, how she can't even keep the callouses she might actually want to form while learning how to wield Ivory as a sword, because they never stay long enough to sink into her Identity. But she allows herself to be distracted — tugged along to other thoughts, caught up in the unpredictable non-pattern of where his fingers press next.

"The ground," she echoes. Of course, the ground. Only once he says it do the easy conclusions slot into place. Back to him, she frowns — thinking about bedding down on obsidian in Shadesmar and shooting a guilty glance over at the square of floorboards that had become his de facto bed here at Jochi's.

"There truly was nothing on the Continent, was there?"

Not even lavis grain stuffed in a sack?

"Not... nothing."

How does he explain? He used to love the Continent, back before the Fracture. Some of his most wonderful memories took place skiing in the mountains, or picking flowers in the meadows, or playing in the gestrals' sanctuary. Back then, there'd been trains to and from most locations on the Continent, even some small clusters of humans living out in more rural areas. That all changed, of course, and now— well, 'nothing' is closer to the truth than he wishes it was.

Verso gingerly sweeps a hand underneath her braid, thumb lingering on the tail of it for a split second before draping it across the shoulder he just massaged. He resists every ridiculous urge he has to take the hair tie out.

"Just— not most things."

He rests a hand on her opposite shoulder, repeating the same actions on this side, fingers pressing along the outline of her spine.

"I'll admit, it took me three days to be able to sleep on a bed again."

An easy, knowing hm is the only sign she gives that she understands — if from a slightly different angle — why adjusting to a soft bed might be an ordeal. The sound barely has time to settle before it twists into a thin, involuntary whine when he finds a particularly stubborn knot.

Nevertheless, a sliver of her attention remains trained on Verso. She finds herself wondering whether he actually slept those first three nights at all, or whether this too is hyperbole — the sort a performer uses to sketch in a feeling rather than recount a fact. But sleep or no sleep, she decides, he has more than earned a comfortable place to rest his head.

When he switches sides, she allows herself to lean back against the divan, resting without fully withdrawing — her shoulder and the line of her neck still offered but her weight no longer held upright by will alone. She has stamina yet to recover, especially after their lunch-that-wasn't-quite-a-date.

"—Was it too soft?"

'Too soft' only in comparison to what he's used to: cold, hard, unforgiving ground. Grass sometimes, wood other times. It hadn't been comfortable, but it had been familiar. Soft mattresses were a relic of the time before, and he'd eschewed any thoughts of them a long time ago—it had been disorienting to have one right in front of him.

"I thought I might sink all the way into it and get lost," he quips, diligently working the pad of his finger into one of her knots.

"It took some getting used to, that's all." And now it's going to take getting used to all over again, actually.

Her cheek nuzzled into the crook of her elbow once again. But unlike last time, it's only to turn her bicep into a makeshift pillow. She sits there, one leg folded underneath her, and listing entirely to the right like she might take a little nap slumped sideways on the divan. Unwilling to disengage from him; equally unwilling to sit tall and still when her wound throbs.

Should she offer to have a good, firm lavis grain mattress sent to his quarters once they return? Better than the ground, surely. But unlikely to swallow him up if he needs to rest. It's the same sort she insists on for her bed.

"...Do you want the divan? Tonight?"

Long gone were the days on the ship where they made good on trading the bed back and forth.

Verso has to list a little to the side, too, to give her a proper massage; they must look ridiculous, the both of them leaning over like weeds in the wind. Having worked out the worst of the knots—at least, as much as he'll be able to in a single round—he flattens his fingers out across her skin and makes a few long, soothing strokes to assuage whatever upset the more forceful touch might have caused.

"As much as I appreciate the offer, I think Jochi might try to bake me into his next meat pie if he saw you on the floor."

He drops his hands into his lap. "All done."

"I can handle Jochi," she insists. Half because it's true. Half because, phrased as he phrased it, Verso didn't technically refuse her.

But the protest amounts to very little. In the wake of those last few touches — ten minutes later, perhaps — she drifts into the too-easy doze that's been stalking her since they returned. She slumps forward over her crossed arms, spine curved, consciousness loosening its grip. Too much walking. Too much excitement. Too much focused listening. All of it coaxed out of her (gently and not-so-gently) by the patient work of Verso's hands on her knotted shoulders.

She sleeps.

The following days pass with little fanfare. The same meals. The same games. The same petty arguments that mean nothing and everything. They walk a little farther each day, Jasnah always insisting that they head in the direction that would take them to the Temple of Jezrian, if they kept going long enough. The temple is their eventual rendezvous point when the Windrunners arrive.

And each time she pushes herself farther she pays for it with an afternoon nap. Sometimes two.

It isn't just healing that drains her. Without stormlight, the realities of a wholly human body crash back into her. Exhaustion, a blister on one heel, persistent muscle fatigue she can't simply burn away. She doesn't ask for another massage. The first had happened too organically and she lacks the language to summon it again without feeling awkward and needy. However, she does expect a fresh braid every morning thereafter. Even if she doesn't strictly need it, she insists on that one remaining layer of polish. A small defiance against everything else she's lost.

Some nights, she asks him to play guitar again. Another night, lying awake in the dark, she clumsily tells him the story of Queen Tsa and Mishim — of moons deceived and dallied with. Yet another night, she asks him to speak only in his native tongue. Most words are meaningless to her but the cadence becomes a strange, musicless lullaby.

Then, one afternoon, with only two days left before the Windrunners are due, Verso returns upstairs from one of his solitary walks to find Jasnah standing by the window.

She's been doing more of that lately: standing. Walking under her own power. Measuring her days in minutes upright rather than hours reclined. Usually, when he comes back, she's pacing a small circuit with a book in hand.

Today, there is no book. She stands close to the window, eye-level with the thick wooden frame dividing the pane in two. And she appears to be speaking. Softly. Rapidly. Words tumbling out in an easy, urgent flood.

She's talking to someone.

As the days go on, nothing really changes; there's no more confessions of vulnerability from either of them, no more touch aside from what's required for practicality's sake. Each day follows a predictable pattern: he takes her downstairs and outside for a walk, keeping close beside or in front of or behind her in case she stumbles.

The walk away from and back to Jochi's—and whatever time is spent with Jasnah in between—takes up the majority of the daytime, and by then he's usually been near enough to Jasnah for long enough to feel the need to clear his head. Then, when he gets back, they eat dinner together and he entertains her for the rest of the night until he falls asleep whispering with her in the dark, and the cycle begins anew. Whatever dislike he has for repetition, it hasn't stopped him from boomeranging back and forth.

He's just been on one of his mind-clearing strolls, expecting Jasnah to be pushing herself again—too far, sometimes—when he gets back. It's a surprise when she isn't, and he feels put off-kilter by the unexpected change in routine. More off-kilter still when he hears her quiet, quick words, and when his gaze drifts in their direction to see her looking out the window.

Verso's brow furrows. Why on earth would she be—? Jochi's rumor about her thrums through his head again, although he dismisses it after a moment.

"Jasnah—?" he asks, taking a step closer.

Edited (i love 'back and forth' i guess) 2026-01-26 00:37 (UTC)

Ivory is awake. And while ordinarily Jasnah is happy to let him sit out-of-sight on her collar or earring, she's missed him dearly enough that she's set him on the narrow lip of wood that crosses the window pane, bringing him to eye-level. The little ink-stain of a man sits stiffly, legs dangling over the edge. Nevertheless, from across the room, he's too small to see.

And before Jasnah realizes Verso has returned, she's still addressing the spren in hushed tones. Hushed tones, and a foreign grammatical structure: "Fascinated with the process is. No stormlight. His finger attached was not — but control still was."

She's telling Ivory about witnessing Verso's pinky finger gallivanting along on its own. In Ivory's natural cadence, at that — some quirk of all inkspren who tend to use an existential copula as the predicate of every sentence. Adjusting her own grammatical structure for Ivory is not that different from adapting to a different way of listening to Verso.

Seconds before Verso approaches, speaking her name, Ivory gives her a sharp warning. Her head cants — as though she's listening — and then a softer mutter, a nod. Once Verso is near enough, he'll catch the little spren sort of flicker to his feet and execute a formal little bow.

"He's up," she states the obvious. Possibly simply because it's a relief to say aloud. But the way her hand still gingerly touches her side, Ivory being awake doesn't seem to have quite put everything to rights.

"Oh," Verso breathes, deeply relieved that he hasn't just walked in on Jasnah talking to herself. (Although— after this much time being cooped up, could anyone really blame her?) "Wow. That's great." And he means it, too. Ivory is clearly important to Jasnah; he knows what it's like to have your mental health hinge on one weird little guy.

"Welcome back, Monsieur Ivory," he says with a tip of his head. "A pleasure to see you up and about."

For some measure of 'seeing'. He's closer now, and he still needs to squint to make out any sort of detail in Ivory's tiny body.

A glance Jasnah's way, then— "You're still hurting?"

Jasnah glances briefly between the two — a little surprised that Ivory acknowledges Verso at all. She's cautioned the spren against disappearing into the Cognitive Realm without a bit more time to understand any current constraints, otherwise she's certain he would already be gone.

She exchanges another quiet word or three with Ivory before leaving him be. The sun, filtering through the glass, sets his ink-black substance alight with purples and yellows and little oily rainbows. The way she steps away from the window suggests the next conversation won't be between the three of them.

"He's up, but something is still wrong. I can pull in stormlight — but only small amounts, and sluggishly. I do think it's made a difference," she pats her side, "like healing a little bit faster than I would otherwise. Nowhere near as instantaneous as it should be."

Quieter: "He's not quite certain what happened, either. It was a total disruption of consciousness — like when he first entered the Physical Realm, before our bond. If someone on Roshar has developed a way to so entirely neutralize our Radiant Orders..."

Well. There goes their advantage in the war effort.

He doesn't fully understand what Jasnah is talking about, but he can figure that it's bad, at least. Still, our Radiant Orders is far less a concern to him than Jasnah's wellbeing is, so he lets it pass by for the moment. As they talk, he crosses his arms, leaning in and lowering his voice slightly. Not because he has any stake in keeping this private, but because it seems to be a conversation Jasnah doesn't want to share with Ivory at the moment.

"Maybe Ivory just needs more time to recover himself." Again, he's not certain of the nature of this bond, how it works—but this seems like uncharted territory, a spren being damaged in this way. "You were both hurt pretty badly."

It can't be helped. Jasnah's worries have already drifted away from what's personal and immediate; now, she's considering what it means if the enemy targets spren rather than the humans bonded to them. It would never be effective in mass warfare — too fiddly, too precise, too piecemeal. But if she can already imagine the kinds of surgical strikes that could be made against critical members of each order, then it's impossible that the enemy hasn't also considered the same.

So who was it? Odium's forces, or the Ghostbloods? The next critcal question to answer.

"Hm? She shakes her head, setting aside her distractions for a moment and catching up to what Verso is saying. "Yes. That would be the best case scenario. That somehow our bond has been reset in some capacity."

Reset. Hmm. Verso's mind turns over, too, although his focus is less on the implications for the war effort and more on what this means for Jasnah personally. Not like this, he remembers, and frowns.

"You had to swear some oaths to him, didn't you?"

He recognizes that he probably sounds like a fucking idiot who doesn't know anything to Jasnah, but—he doesn't know enough to not sound like that.

"Maybe you need to go through that again."

He sounds so, so far from an idiot. If anything, Jasnah is a touch impressed that he's already caught up to her line of thinking — that he has managed to intuit something despite not having bonded a spren himself. If she scratched the surface of that surprise, she might find further conclusions and questions about empathy, about theory of mind, about care.

But, for now, it's enough to be impressed.

"I think that's right," she nods again. "Each ideal is its own challenge and advantage. And they can't be rushed, least of all Elsecaller ideals."

— Cool, calm, easy. It doesn't occur to her that she's never named her own order before now.

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