recreatable | open post.

Verso stares back at her. She's doing it again. That thing he pointed out (that she didn't like that he pointed out)—talking about something personal as if it's merely an academic discussion, not anything to do with her. After having told her about Renoir and the scar, it feels...

Disappointing.

He takes a page from her book. Asking rather than assuming. It doesn't come naturally. He presses his fingertips to her upper arm, lightly, and asks, "You don't want to tell me about yours?"

Okay, fine. It's more of a statement with an upward inflection at the end, but he's trying to speak her language here.

She doesn't pull away from his touch.

But she does tip the cup back for a mouthful of water, buying herself a moment longer before she answers, attention slipping back through the arched doorway of the kitchenette. She can't see Ivory from this distance, but — he's there. Cross-legged, likely. Some pantomime of meditation.

"No, it's not that." She seems quick to correct him. It's not you; it's me and my even-more-paranoid spren. "They're not mine alone to tell."

Earlier, before Verso returned, she and Ivory had talked. About the unidentified Cryptic in the alleyway. About what it was doing there, and what might have attracted it. And they'd discussed Verso himself — with Jasnah filling the spren in on what these last two weeks had been like. It was damnably complimentary; Verso would have enjoyed hearing it. But in the end, they'd argued most over how much should be shared. Between the two of them, Ivory is the more reticent.

"Elsecaller oaths are less oaths and more — outcomes. It might be more helpful to understand the rules before you learn the exceptions."

He understands 'not mine alone to tell'—but at the same time, he feels just a little niggle of irritation. Isn't it enough for Ivory that Verso spent the past two weeks taking care of Jasnah while he was indisposed? Isn't it enough that he offered to go looking for him, and helped Jasnah when she was finally ready to do so?

Verso didn't do all of that for Ivory's trust or praise. He did it because Jasnah needed him to. Still, it rankles a bit. Hypocritically—he'd always expected Monoco to keep his secrets from the Expeditions, no matter how much bonding they'd done, and those secrets were far worse than Jasnah's ideals.

A breath, and he drops his hand. "Am I allowed to ask what you mean by 'outcomes'?"

"You're allowed to ask anything you'd like," she corrects — but it's a measure gentler than other corrections. Maybe less a correction and more like an instructive nudge, setting a wayward student back on their path. "Just as you're allowed to decline answering anything you're asked."

She rolls the cup in her hand, between her thumb and fingers, and slowly-eventually-finally gives way with a nod.

"Outcomes, like aspirations. A Windrunner promises their spren that they will protect those who cannot protect themselves, and jeopardizes their bond every time they fail to make good on that promise. An Elsecaller..." Jasnah pauses, hitching mid-sentence, before adjusting her language. "I promised Ivory I would do what I could to reach my full potential."

It's more than this. There are real, earnest declarations she's made about the kind of leader she intends to be — but that might indeed be too personal to share. Storms, they might be moot if their bond truly is so damanged.

This is a challenge for both of them, clearly. Trying to navigate their interactions, to speak each other's languages (literally, sometimes, in Jasnah's case). But if she's going to try, he's going to try, so Verso nods along to her instruction, listens carefully to her answer.

"Well, you've certainly done that." Worked to reach her full potential. He's not sure he's ever seen another person so ambitious to do their utmost. Clea, perhaps, before— mm. He feels a sharp pang of grief and shoves the thought away.

"If your abilities are based on that, they'll come back." Even as he says it, he knows Jasnah will probably hear it as a meaningless platitude. After all, he has no way of knowing. Still: "I'm sure there's no one in the world better suited to—" What is it called? "Elsecalling."

She doesn't share his confidence. Considering the effort and diligence that went into all four of her Ideals thus far—? Storms, there's only diminishing returns that remain to her. There is very little room to grow when you're so undeniably at the top of your game.

The thought of starting over again, of painstakingly picking a direction and grinding against it — well, no, actually, it would be fun and exciting were it not the impending sense of existential dread thanks to Odium's threats against Roshar. If the answer truly is to start over, she'd best define her goals. And quickly.

"You're right, if only by default. No one else could possibly be better suited to it because there are no other Elsecallers. As far as we know, only Ivory has chosen to make a bond."

"Oh," he says, surprised. "That must be—"

A beat. He swallows.

"Is that hard? Being the only one?"

Again, her attention drifts back through the doorway. Telltale signs that she's thinking more about Ivory than herself.

"I've never needed company to feel confident," she answers — jaw a little jutted, pride on display. The careful armour of someone who has made excuses for their solitary nature long enough that the excuses may as well be truths, now.

"But imagine it's harder for him," she tilts her head, indicating Ivory. "He went against his people when he approached me. The Inkspren no longer trust humans. Our 'mercurial nature' worries them — and I can't say they're wrong to worry."

"Yeah, well. Humans can be... challenging," he admits. Maybe he should have been more forgiving toward Ivory's mistrust of him.

"It's good that he has you." Verso imagines it's very lonely to be Ivory. In this moment, he can empathize deeply with the situation of having no one besides Jasnah to lean on. "He'll never be alone."

Verso steps away, snatching up a hefty paper bag— "Hungry? I brought dinner."

Edited 2026-01-26 19:44 (UTC)

Ordinarily, Jasnah would chomp at the bit for a chance to give a little history lecture. Just now, however, she's grateful for the side-step and the subject change. A few words more and she might have needed to explain the Recreance, and that requires explaining the human exodus from Ashyn, and that requires explaining the Shards and — and there's a lot she's not quite Up To, today. It's enough for Ivory to be back. It's enough to even think about how to put one foot in front of the other, and do it long enough to reach Jezrien's Temple in two days' time.

Oh well. First, food.

"Please, please tell me that's from somewhere — anywhere — other than Jochi's kitchen."

She likes her friend and respects his craft but — oh, she's hoping for something a bit more substantial. Less yeasted.

"Oof," Verso laughs, "I won't tell Jochi that you said that."

But luckily for her, he can in fact tell her it's from somewhere else. He hoists the bag up onto the counter, removing a round container and holding it out to her.

"It's that curry you like."

And, that night, dinner felt almost celebratory. Maybe because so much tension has eased from Jasnah's posture with the convergence of so many other, smaller events: Ivory waking, the distance she's been able to walk, the upcoming return to Urithiru. At least, it feels celebratory to her.

And the next day is both so entirely mundane and so entirely not. She paces herself during their morning walk, opting to go a shorter distance in favour of saving her energy for tomorrow. Although she continues to help herself along with a thin trickle of stormlight, it's still not quite enough. She's doing better, but she still needs his arm.

— She has her final face-to-face conversation with Jochi. It's bittersweet, but she's also certain he's eager to have his home back. And when Jochi retires for the night, but Verso hasn't yet returned, Jasnah sits with Ivory and talks through their contingencies. They agree he won't try to slip into Shadesmar until they're back in Urithiru, where they can prevail upon Pattern or Glys or or some other spren to intervene if something goes wrong.

By the time Verso returns, she's packing and repacking their small satchel. On her feet, keeping busy, doing so much better than those first few days laid out on the divan. They make easy small talk about the evening.

And then, in a lull of silence, she announces: "We said we'd reevaluate our — my — ability to leave once the day came."

Six days, versus seven, versus more.

Ah. It isn't as if he'd thought she would forget about that agreement, but he'd hoped regardless. Jasnah flying through the air after seven days makes him nervous, much less six. In the end, it's just a few handfuls of hours, no real difference, but—

Well, it's just a few handfuls of hours, no real difference, so why push it?

"We did say that."

Verso slips An Accountability of Virtue back into the satchel. He supposes he'll have to give it back to the library at some point. He's a little worried he might get banned for (accidentally) stealing it, though.

"I don't think it would hurt to be cautious."

"I have been taking on small amounts of stormlight," she reminds him — and it sounds almost...rehearsed? Not nervous, but certainly prepared. "And while the gains haven't been tremendous, I'm convinced I'm in finer shape than I would have been without it."

And here it is. The lynchpin of her argument. Jasnah pats her side.

"Help me with the bandage, this time." These last instances, she's been changing it herself. Once she had enough mobility and once there was considerable less risk of anything bursting open unexpectedly, she'd requested to take that duty on for herself. "You'll see. Things are healing well enough. I'm sure I'm ready."

—A wry twist of his lips. "You sound like me when I was trying to convince my parents to let me move out to attend the Conservatory."

A practiced, planned argument that he was certain they couldn't refuse. You've always said that a true artist knows himself, he'd said. But how can I know myself if I haven't been on my own? Funny. He's been on his own for decades now, and he still isn't sure he knows himself any better. His independent identity has only eroded more and more as the years have gone by.

Anyway.

"Sit down, then." Said with a sort of fond exasperation, so that she knows he's going to indulge her but that he still sees right through her.

He gathers up the necessary supplies: the antiseptic remedy he'd gotten from the physician, a washcloth for cleaning, a fresh linen dressing. After setting them on the end table and pulling it up beside him, he sits beside her on the divan, one leg pulled up so that he can face her properly.

"I'm gonna—" he says, gesturing to her in warning that she's about to be touched. The exposure of her skin is careful, uncovering nothing beside what he absolutely has to see to change the dressing. He pushes the fabric of her shirt away from her wound while he peels the old dressing away, doing his utmost to be businesslike.

"You know, the first time I did this, I don't even think you were conscious." In case she needs help remembering just how severely she was injured.

A brief nod when he warns her. She doesn't flinch and she doesn't tense — at least, not in the way one might expect. Instead, there's a small steadying breath through her nose as she adjusts her posture. Shoulders angling just so. She tries to be cooperative, offering him the access he needs to make good on the task.

"I know," she says quietly. Her gaze drifts down to his hands as he works — noting the sticky feeling as the old bandage peels away. Dried biological matter; not quite as serosanguinous as it had once been. In the absence of good stitches, the bigger fight has been keeping the skin together. "I think I remember flashes — but nothing solid."

Obviously, she prefers this: awake, conscious, present. She dislikes gaps in her memory. They invite other people to decide what happened for you.

As the last of the bandage tugs free, she betrays herself with a full-body shiver. A soft hiss, too, although she's quick to explain: "Storms, it's itchy."

The hiss makes him glance up, concerned that he's hurt her just by the mere act of removing her dressing. He breathes a sigh of relief when she blames it on itchiness, mouth not exactly smiling but the corners softened from the grim line they'd been a moment before.

"That's good," he says, "it means it doesn't hurt."

Right now, anyway. It might be about to when he starts cleaning it. He discards the dressing, then soaks the washcloth in a liberal amount of antiseptic. Verso hadn't been heavily involved in the more medical aspects of Alicia's recovery, but he'd assisted with the wound cleaning a few times. That had been different, of course, her flesh burned down to her very nerves, but he still remembers how she'd looked—mouth open in a silent scream, tears in her eyes.

So, he's as gentle as possible as he presses the washcloth to her wound. Light little butterfly kisses of the cloth, nothing more.

"Why are you so eager to leave a day early?" Another question in place of an assumption. She should pat him on the head. Maybe scratch behind his ears. "I would have thought you'd want to put off flying as long as possible."

Pat him on the head? Perhaps not. But she does grab a fistful of his sleeve, fingers winding tight against his shoulder — a brief, instinctive displacement of sensation as the antiseptic stings. No matter how gently he dabs. It's not a terrible pain, just a bare burn and zip of discomfort. And anyway, grabbing hold of something seems to do the trick.

"Flying? Yes." Jasnah eases into her answer. It's better when she understands what conversation they're having. What parameters she's expected to speak within. When someone asks you a question, there's no such thing as a wrong answer — just true answers and false answers.

"But the Windrunners are what's between me and the tower, so I'll grit my teeth and endure them." ANd because she hasn't fully given her true answer yet, she continues: "I miss my study. The council rooms. The work."

And then, talking her way past the sting as it subsides, she adds:

"There's this — little girl, an Edgedancer from the Reshi Isles — who keeps sneaking onto the Kholin floor and emptying every fruit plate she can find. I think I even miss her."

Oh, Verso, you would love Lift.

Edited 2026-01-26 23:48 (UTC)

Verso would love her, and the corner of his mouth twitches and then lowers as he thinks—bittersweetly—of his own little girl that he misses, a world away. It's horrible of him to wonder if Alicia might still be in existence, if he might be able to wheedle Jasnah into researching a way that she could come here, too. He should be happy that she's likely met oblivion, finally at peace, but his heart aches for her against his better judgment.

"Your study will still be there in another day," he says as he removes the cloth from her now-damp skin and retrieves the dressing. "And so will your mischievous little girl."

He must sound unreasonably difficult. Like he's challenging her just for the sake of it. He keeps his eyes on his hands as they apply the dressing, saying quietly, "I just don't want you to get hurt." More than she already has.

Gooseflesh (chickenflesh?) dots over her flank, her stomach as damp skin meets air. A brief shiver, and she loosens her grip on his sleeve — sinking back a little and reclaiming her posture now that the immediate moment has passed. Composure regained.

And composure is what she needs while she watches him, still. Watching him work, actively patching her up while telling her he doesn't want her to get hurt. Does he...does he need reassurance? A reminder that she does possess a firm sense of self-preservation, despite all evidence to the contrary.

"Despite my personal misgivings about flying," she picks her way carefully through her answer because it belies just how irrational she can (in fact) be, "objectively I can assure you it'll be safe. If for no other reason than you can count on a Windrunner to be exceedingly, annoyingly virtuous."

Oh — this is annoying. This is frustrating. But it's also an excellent opportunity to reinforce a lesson given just a few days earlier.

"I told you Windrunner oaths are about protecting others. Whoever they send, they won't let us leave the ground unless they're certain it can be done safely. It could be Stormblessed himself — who dislikes me as much as I dislike him, I imagine — and my safety would nevertheless be guaranteed. Yours, too."

Edited 2026-01-27 01:00 (UTC)

"My safety's already guaranteed," he points out. The Windrunners could drop him from thousands of feet in the air and let his body turn to jelly on the ground and he'd still be fine.

He finishes applying her new dressing, then lowers the hem of her shirt to cover it. A long contemplative pause follows before—

"—If the Windrunners clear you for flight tomorrow, then we can go."

She stops herself short of saying I don't want you to get hurt either — because maybe his safety is guaranteed, sure, but she saw the real pain he felt chopping off his little finger. Survival doesn't mean safe, does it? A breath out through her nose. That semantic distinction could be a gnarly little essay all on its own. Maybe one she'll feel fit to write once she's back at the tower. Once the dust settles.

Jasnah doesn't move. Doesn't scoot away, doesn't lean back any more than she already needed to in order to let him work. But she does watch him carefully.

"You know," she tilts her head, "that almost sounds like the future Wit is is trying to — perhaps — curtail the queen."

It's not a complaint. Not yet. But on the (potential) eve of their return, she should summon back a little decorum. At least for in front of the Windrunners. Can't have him appealing to them directly, undermining her own presence and will.

If Verso were just a little more attuned to the workings of this world—if he hadn't spent the majority of his time here so far alone with Jasnah in exceptional circumstances—he might understand that this is an indication of what's to come: a return to queenliness and duty and obligation. But he doesn't understand that, not really, and so he stays blissfully unaware of what this return to 'decorum' will actually entail.

Lightly: "—Delay, perhaps. Suspend. But never curtail."

Hands finally free, he rests an elbow on the back of the divan, fingers idly twiddling with a loose thread.

"I think it sounds like your friend is looking out for you." By, yes, stepping on her agency a little—but if she'd really insist upon it, he would relent. "If the Windrunners agree that you're fit to go, you won't hear another word about it out of me."

His twiddling stops, and he holds out a pinky. "Promise."

Friend.

The word strikes deeper tonight than in any previous instance. Storms. She watches him carefully, suddenly and sharply aware that they'll need to have a conversation about courtly manners sooner rather than later. But she puts it off. Maybe it'll land better behind some closed door at Urithiru than it will here.

For now, she reaches out and wraps two fingers around his littlest one in a clumsy not-quite-handshake. She doesn't know about the custom he's inviting her to partake in, and defaults to assuming it's something it's not.

"You should know," she warns him warmly, "that we take our promises quite seriously."

Oaths. Promises. Words. It comes with the territory of being Honor's chosen people.

Edited 2026-01-27 01:48 (UTC)

Oh. She's so ridiculously charming, and she doesn't even know it. "You're in luck, then."

Tumbling ever deeper into a chasm he's not sure how to climb out of, he smiles, laughs—with her, not at her—and reaches out with his free hand to gingerly pry her fingers off of his, uncurling them one by one. Then, he takes her pinky between his fingers, gently twining it around his.

"This is a pinky swear." There's a serious tone to his voice, but an amused twinkle in his eye. "The most solemn of all promises. Right above blood oaths."

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