Oblivious to Jasnah's horror, Verso's mouth twists as he surveys her post-goggles appearance. A very cute underwater creature. The struggle of putting them on has left them slightly crooked, and he carefully pushes one side down with an index finger before working his own gloves onto his hands.
"Accurate as always, ma pieuvre." Do octopi exist in Roshar? Who knows! He doesn't bother expanding. "Ready?"
Jasnah is very much not ready — so tangled in her own meticulous, spiraling anxiety that it doesn't even occur to her to ask what a pieuvre is. Perhaps she is afraid of heights after all. Or, if not heights, then flying. Nothing about it feels secure or orderly or governed by rules she can interrogate in advance. And however much she insists aloud that the Windrunners are diligent and capable, it isn't the same as trust. Not really. And while she trusts them not to be traitors, it's not the same thing as trusting them with her body.
She shakes out her hands, draws herself up to her full height beneath the layers of fabric and cloak, and gives a nod toward the Windrunners. Ready. The gesture feels momentous to her. It is, quite clearly, just another weekday to them.
Lyn briskly steps in, practical and efficient, and ushers her two charges together as if aligning furniture. With a soft exhale of stormlight, she arranges them into position — close, unavoidably close — binding them side by side. Closer even still than when they'd walked, since their bodies need to be flush with one another for the bond to take. Adhesion takes hold, subtle and inexorable, fixing one of Verso's arms around Jasnah's middle. Lyn gives a stern look that brooks no argument: it's meant to shield the queen's wounded side, to turn his body into her buffer. She has no idea how naturally the thought has already occurred to him.
The result leaves them standing like conspirators caught mid-huddle: hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, arms hooked around one another's backs. There is nowhere to shift without shifting together. Jasnah becomes acutely aware of the line of his ribs, the steady warmth of him, the fact that if she sways, she will sway into him. They stand like that for a long, exquisitely uncomfortable forty seconds.
Then Lopen signals, a trio of whistled notes and a spiral of his fingers in the air. The Windrunners lift first — rising a casual six feet into the air, as if the ground has simply lost interest in them. Drehy swoops in next and applies a Basic Lashing on the two still below. Gravity loosens its grip.
Jasnah's feet leave the ground.
The sensation hits all at once: a hollowing in her stomach, a queer, stomach-flipping lightness that steals her breath. Not falling — not quite — but unmoored. Weightless. Her body protests, instincts scrambling for traction that no longer exists. Her fingers curl reflexively, and for half a heartbeat she clings to Verso not out of practicality but sheer animal reflex.
Air thickens around them as the Windrunners go to work — sculpting currents, fine-tuning vectors, shaping a loose triangular formation. The city drops away below and they all shoot upward, then hover, suspended high above the rooftops.
Lopen skates past on his back like he's swimming through the sky, grinning, and flashes them an enthusiastic double thumbs-up.
"Things are going to get breezy, ganchos," he calls.
Verso knows what it feels like to be in flight—he's ridden around the Continent on Esquie's back enough times—but to be weightless is something else entirely. His feet dangle, scrabbling for ground that's barely there, and he tightens his hold on Jasnah as if she might slip away even despite the magic binding them together. His tiptoes brush against the ground, and then there's nothing there at all as they shoot further into the sky—
Uncharacteristically demonstrative, he shouts, "Whoo!"
Directly into Jasnah's poor ear, in fact. By accident, but nonetheless. Although the arm around Jasnah grips her as securely as he can, his free hand flies up, fist in the air. Unlike Jasnah, he doesn't feel queasy or unsettled or even the slightest bit afraid. This is, without a doubt, awesome.
They hover in place, an obscene distance from the ground. Jasnah's heart feels like it's floating up into her chest, pounding at the back of her throat in muted, biological panic. Like bodies are not meant to do this. Like the laws of nature themselves are quietly rebelling. Rich, considering what she is capable of. But logic is nowhere near her now, not as she twists her gloved fingers into his clothing and levers herself nearer — nearer, despite his shout of childish joy.
Nearer, despite the audience. The need to steady herself against something is so instinctive it barely registers as a choice. And the something just happens to be him.
When he whispers instead of shouts, she has to cant her head toward his to hear. Drehy sets them onto a current and the wind surges past, tilting them horizontal in a way that has her clinging to him all over again, grip tightening, breath catching.
"How is it," she grits out through clenched teeth, "that you can stomach this but not the sea?"
A neat deflection, avoiding any commentary on the queasiness etched across her face.
How can she stomach the sea and not this? The unsteady waters had made his stomach churn, tossing his body from side-to-side in ways he couldn't fully control, but this feels light, free. There's wind whipping the fabric of his clothing, hood already fallen off, hair kept somewhat in place only by the strap of his goggles.
If he chose to examine the truth, he'd wonder if perhaps the only reason he feels this childlike wonder is because of a mother's memory. Because she remembers what her son was like when he was eight and loved adventure and trains better than she does when he was twenty-six and had, presumably, his own grown-up secrets to hide from her.
He doesn't choose to examine the truth, though. Not now, when he's flying through the air and experiencing the sort of uncomplicated joy he hasn't felt in 7 decades.
"Hey, don't look down," is his non-answer. "Just look at me. I won't let you fall."
Well. He won't let her get injured from a fall, technically, but that's getting into semantics.
There's turmoil inside her. A give-and-take tension between shuttering all her senses and gritting her way through this ordeal — and then there's the other alternative: siphoning off a little of his excitement, harnessing it for herself, focusing on him instead of the height. She's already halfway to disassociating when she hears him. Just look at me.
So she does. And she can't see all of him — all of his expression — from this too-tight angle. But she can see enough, in raw up-close detail, that she allows herself to focus on Verso. She starts by mentally mapping his scar. Her attention is high-intensity, and silent except for an uncharacteristically agreeable nod.
This could never have been possible without the weeks that preceded it. Days on days on days of sharing his personal space just to stand up and sit down. It's easy (well, easier) to trust the person whose as good as had his fingers in her guts, holding her together. And who then held her together every subsequent day.
As they clear the mountains, as Drehy's current tips them deeper into a sorta-horizontal angle, Jasnah holds tighter — turning her cheek so she can speak directly into his ear, hoping to be heard against the noisy wind.
"They'll take us back over Longbrow's Strait and the Tarat Sea. It'll be some time before you see land again. But when you do, it'll be Marat. Or perhaps Greater Hexi. Then, the mountains of Ur."
Reciting facts. Setting expectations. Controlling what she can, which happens to be a a whispered geography lesson.
He can tell what she's doing. Relying on something familiar and safe to keep her heart steady, her stomach unturned. Verso uses that same technique every time he deflects from something uncomfortable with a half-hearted joke.
It always works better when someone goes along with it. So, as they travel high over the waters, he asks questions more befitting of Jasnah than him: is that saltwater or freshwater? How long does it go for? What sort of creatures live in the waters? Under other circumstances, they aren't the sort of questions he'd usually ask, but he nods along to every answer offered regardless as if it's the most interesting thing in the world.
He does the same as they finally make it to land. What's this place called? Who lives here? What's their culture like? Anything to keep her focused on the conversation instead of the nausea in her stomach.
Once they're finally back on the ground in Urithiru—and they manage to extricate themselves from each other—he offers an encouraging hand on her shoulder and a, "You did good." His eyes drop to her stomach for a split second, and he asks, "Still in one piece?"
Jasnah's georgraphy lesson shifts to politics and economics as one of his idle questions prompts her to explain the fine Marati rugs and furniture imported from this region of the world. She sticks to high-level facts. Trade numbers. Summit discussions. But now and then something personal slips through. Marat gifted me a sizeable rug at my coronation — remarkable how well they matched dyes to Kholin blue.
On occasion, Drehy and Lyn swap out responsibility for keeping the pair alight. And as the trip progresses — once they hit top speeds, into the mountains — it's hard to tell whether she nuzzles in close for safety or for warmth against the windchill. Conversation halts in favour of sheltering her face against his shoulder.
But then, Urithiru. The Windrunners bring them to a grand balcony at a mid-point on the tower, easing off on the Lashings until they all come to a relatively soft landing. Jasnah's heels skip-jump-trip a little as she finds her footing. Brusque and stiff, she steps back and — considering his question — nods once.
"Whole and accounted for. Thank you," she says with gratitude that's just on the far side of warm.
But then reality shutters into place. In the corner of her attention, she watches the three Windrunners snap to attention. They cross their arms over their chest in the customary Bridge Four salute. Two figures walk out onto the balcony. Well, two figures, but one is holding a toddler on her hip: Dalinar, Navani, and little Gavinor.
Steel slips back into Jasnah's spine. Even when the little boy clambers out of his grandmother's arms and comes rushing across the balcony to greet her, they both stand there like awkward solemn creatures standing off against one another and who don't quite know what to do. He pouts. He says something about how it's good that she's returned because he really didn't want to be king if she hadn't. And Jasnah awkwardly pats a gloved hand on his head, leaning down just far enough to gift him her goggles before redirecting him to play with the Windrunners. He looks so much like his father, she thinks.
"Dessendre," she says in a stern tone but soft volume as the toddler runs off. Jasnah pulls off the thicker gloves she'd worn in-flight, leaving behind just the thinner leather glove on her safehand. "Time to meet Urithiru's Bondsmiths. "
The woman — oh, well, there's no mistaking the her. This is Jasnah's mother. But it's the man — hard-faced and wearing a practical blue uniform — who reaches out and takes Jasnah by the arm. Navani hovers nearby, the very picture of a mother who would like nothing more than to embrace her daughter but doesn't quite know how to initiate the hug.
"Uncle," she pats Dalinar on the bicep. Jasnah is tall, but he's taller. "Your penmanship is improving."
Suggesting once and for all that any weird, clumsy writing on the spanreed back in Thaylen City had been this man's doing.
Verso, who'd moments before been completely unselfconscious about his appearance, rips off his goggles with a quickness, swiftly smoothing his windswept hair down. He takes a small step closer to Jasnah and the gaggle that's come to meet her, and then—
waits.
He expects to be instantly introduced, as that is the polite thing to do; when she doesn't, he starts to wonder if maybe she never intended him to be introduced at all, and he takes that small step back again. But she had said it was time to meet them, so— he takes the small step forward once more.
The process repeats a few more times until he's standing behind her, quite literally twiddling his thumbs. It's too late now to jump in and introduce himself, but he's also spent too much time loitering around to just leave. He busies himself by picking at a loose thread on his shirt like it's impossibly fascinating.
Conversation turns quickly — abruptly — to an inquiry about the border with Emul and Tukar. And it says perhaps a bit too much about Jasnah that she's willing to let Verso shadow her while she absorbs these few key updates about how coalition forces have managed these past two weeks. Jasnah argues with her uncle on a handful of points, but it never grows heated.
It takes Navani clearing her throat for the third time to break-up the little military tête-à-tête between her husband and her daughter. And even then, it's Dalinar who winds down the conversation. Clearly, he's a man well-accustomed to navigating the choppy waters between both Kholin women.
"Is this the 'ally' you wrote about?" Navani asks of Verso. Although she has a similar presence and composure to her, she's also evidently more of a political creature. Warm, even when she doesn't need to be. Smiling and gracious. "Are you who I have to thank for seeing my daughter back to me?"
Jasnah interjects: "Verso Dessendre — let me introduce the King and Queen of Urithiru. Dalinar and Navani."
It's complicated. They rule Urithiru as monarchs. And then there's Jasnah, who rules Alethkar. But Alethkar is occupied. So she rules from Urithiru, but doesn't rule Urithiru. Don't think about it too hard.
Verso breathes a sigh of relief when Navani finally, finally acknowledges him. At least there's someone here who isn't treating him like an uninteresting piece of furniture. He steps forward again, giving nods of acknowledgement to the both of them; he'd reach out to shake their hands, but he's not really sure what the protocol is here with royalty. He'd instantly dropped anything resembling protocol with Jasnah, and she'd never instructed him otherwise.
He does really want to make a good impression, though—he feels surprisingly anxious at meeting people who are ostensibly important to Jasnah, whose opinions matter to her—so he puts on his most charming smile, one that's self-aware of its own charmingness. One that's rusty, yes, but has been used countless times on partygoers at fancy soirees the better part of a century ago.
"Jasnah," he scolds playfully, "you never mentioned that you have a younger sister."
Jasnah doesn't suppress the roll of her eyes or the tut at the tip of her tongue. She's always found this sort of flattery petty. Childish, even. But Navani eats it up with a toothy smile and an appropriately motherly pat-pat-pat of her freehand on Verso's arm. Deeply informal, for a monarch. It turns out safeguarding her daughter's life gains one a lot of social capital to spend.
Meanwhile, Dalinar looks perplexed. "Found him in Kharbranth?" He asks his niece, and she coolly confesses that Verso had been in Urithiru — stashed away on one of the mid-floors — for some time before this whole debacle went down. His thick eyebrows raise in surprise, but it doesn't stick around long. Jasnah likes her secrets.
Jasnah has to interject before Navani does something entirely unreasonable. Like invite the man to lunch. Just like that, she's approaching her mother. One hand has settled protectively over her wounded side. And, yes, she's still leaning just a little on Dalinar's arm. A practical affection.
"Precisely the caliber of frippery and humour one ought to expect from my Wit. It's about time the position was filled again."
Navani pauses. Now it's her turn to look perplexed. Something in her daughter's statement resonates a little too sharply.
"Wit," she gestures for Verso to leave ahead of the Kholins — employing, for the first time, the position's title. "I'll send for you later."
Wit, she addresses him, and for an instant, it's obvious on his face how much he dislikes it. Eyes peeking out from behind a furrowed brow, mouth turned into a frown. He hadn't expected to have such a visceral reaction to it, and perhaps he has no reason to. It's just that it makes him feel like he's been slotted into a role, an indistinct replacement. Still, it isn't her fault, not exactly; Verso wouldn't have reacted with quite so much revulsion if not for a century's worth of feeling exactly the same way bearing down on him. Makes him feel a little sick to think of it.
He averts his eyes, a dog with its tail between its legs. "Yeah," he agrees, easily. It's a surprise to be dismissed so soon after weeks of being by her side nearly all of the day, but perhaps that's why. It would be fair to assume she's had more than enough of him. Besides, if it were Verso seeing his family again after weeks apart—
Well, their family reunion would be quite a bit more violent. But if circumstances were different, he'd want some time alone to speak with them, too. In fact, he feels a little pang in his chest at realizing he's never going to speak to his family, alone or otherwise, ever again.
"Your Majesties," he says with a cant of his head to Dalinar and Navani. Then, to Jasnah: "Your Majesty." Just a long enough pause to be a little awkward, and he adds, "See you around," before absconding.
Lunch with her mother and uncle rolls into discussions on troop allocations rolls into someone finally convincing her to go see the surgeon and have a bath and change out of those simple Thaylen clothes. Shallan, probably. Who made it back in better shape than Jasnah did. The two have a long, strained conversation deep into the night about one particular lie the younger woman once told and how it can be leveraged now to Jasnah's benefit.
The third moon rises and she's still awake — transferring notes from one journal into a selection of different, more topics-based journals. But, storms, she's tired. An idle chat with Ivory makes her feel a little better. And...yes, in the busy mix of it all she forgets Verso entirely.
Almost entirely. When something pulls in her side like a dull ache, she thinks of him. When her loose hair tickles the back of her neck because it's not yet in a tight braid, she thinks of him. When Ivory asks a pointed question about the days he missed in Thaylen City, she thinks of him. But not once does she act on these thoughts.
— It's a full day and night and day before she feels sufficiently caught up and reestablished in the currency of her work (fighting against flashbacks to how behind-the-times she'd felt the last time she'd gone missing, albeit for so much longer) to even think about what she misses. Shelving a book, she glances over at her desk and...
Hmm.
It's late, but a runner boy is dispatched to find the Wit. Verso. Wherever he is in the tower, that boy will track him down and inform him that if he would just follow him, the Queen would like to talk. "The Alethi one," the boy adds. In case there's any confusion.
Verso expects her to call on him later that day. In the evening, at the very least. She'd suggested as much, hadn't she? He's up late into the night waiting on her—although he'd be up regardless—and by the end of it he feels like a teenager who's been stood up by their date.
He used to be so gifted at solitude, but he'd grown accustomed to having constant company in the past weeks; it makes the return to loneliness that much harder. As he lies on his too-soft bed, wondering again if he'll sink into it like a stone in water, he longs for Alicia and Clea's companionship. They're better off without him, but the rationality of that thought doesn't do anything to alleviate the ache. As much as he hates to admit it, he wasn't built to be alone.
That's where he is when Jasnah's runner finds him. He has to request a moment to fix his appearance given that he's spent the better part of the day moping in bed, but afterwards he does as requested, following him to wherever Jasnah might be. Despite the aforementioned combination moping-missing he's been doing, he does his best to appear at least in middling spirits.
The boy brings Verso to a small interior room on what must be the Kholin floor — at least, it's obvious if he's managed to match that particular shade of blue on the banners to her family. Otherwise, maybe it seems like any other floor.
The room however is undoubtedly hers. Shelves that line the walls are full to bursting with books and piles of papers. More of both seem to spill onto a wide desk with just enough space available to write — lit by a goblet of brightly infused diamonds. More gemstones sit in braziers on the walls but they're a sad stand-in for natural light (from a moon or the sun) considering there are no windows. Even the ventilation shafts high to the ceiling are mostly shuttered — so the room is just a little on the stuffy side. There's a hearth but instead of a fire it's got a little heating fabrial.
Jasnah sits at her desk. But when Verso arrives, she stands — almost smoothly. She does use the desk's edge to support those last few inches of momentum. Although her hair is down and loose, the rest of her looks much more true to form: deep purple havah; buttoned sleeve; gold bracelets and earrings. Queen, again.
She rounds the table and gestures him inside — coolly thanking the runner boy before sending him off with a garnet mark for a tip.
And because she doesn't know how to say I finally realized I missed you, she opts instead for: "I had Shallan draw up some portraits based on what I could remember about the attacker's appearance. I'd like you to have a look — and maybe sit with her too. Describe what you might have seen."
She looks nice, although he doesn't say so. Somehow, the current in the air doesn't feel right to. Instead, he just says, "Oh. All right."
The current in the air also doesn't feel right to approach her any further right now, so he glances at the bookshelves instead, running a finger down the spine of what looks to be a particularly dense and boring account of history.
With a shrug: "You could have just given me some paints, you know."
She pauses with her fingers on the portrait pages. It's not surprise, really. More like that old habitual curiosity wiggling its way into her reaction. And, oh, okay. Maybe a little bit of surprise. But only because (again) it's unusual for her to meet a man who paints. But it was clumsy of her to have forgotten the cardbacks and the royals.
— So she closes the distance between them and holds out a couple pages each with a few different treatments. Based on the written description Jasnah had tried to set to paper as soon as she could sit at the end-table after she'd regained consciousness. Shallan's work is impeccable. Whether or not the description is accurate is more Jasnah's responsibility, but the artist had nevertheless breathed such tender life into what amounts to little more than a mugshot.
"How about charcoal?"
These portraits are in charcoal and — doubling back to her desk after handing them off — she returns with a little wooden box with bits of charcoal wrapped in cloth.
"These are good," he says appreciatively. Although his heart lies with the performing arts rather than the visual, he's certainly studied enough in the latter to know when someone has talent. And so quick, too. Jasnah must have gotten to work on getting these done soon after returning to Urithiru. Maybe that's what she was doing while he was waiting alone in his room for her to need him.
"But his shoulders are— and his nose was a little more—" Verso lowers the papers, reaching for a piece of charcoal. "Can I?"
A slow, knowing nod. If she feels some instinctive kick to correct him and say instead that these are beyond good then she suppresses it well. But Jasnah is pleased with Shallan's growth — and while the girl doesn't want to be her ward any longer, she can't help but feel a little responsible for her professional development all the same.
The only concession she'll make is in carefully displacing criticism off Shallan and onto herself: "My memories of what happened and how he appeared are — loose. At best. She might have done better with a better description."
Nevertheless, she holds the box ajar for Verso and lets him pick whatever piece pleases him. Storms, she even invites him — with a gesture — to sit at the desk if he'd like a work surface.
He doesn't sit at the desk. He places the papers down and leans over it instead, not so presumptuous as to make himself at home here. The next few minutes are filled with quiet, focused scribbling. Filling in details Jasnah didn't mention to Shallan, making slight edits. The aforementioned nose and shoulders, as well as a darkening of his brows, a faint wrinkle between them.
Finally: "There." He steps back, leaving the papers on the desk as he drops the charcoal back in the box.
His question draws a frown. Before now — while he'd been amending Shallan's work, a liberty she didn't even think twice of affording him over another artists work incidentally — Jasnah had been standing stiff and solemn off to the side of her study. Safehand covered and loose at her hip; freehand braced gently against her side.
Unfortunately, that was all. The breadth of the excuse she'd managed to drum up to see him again — whether or not she admits it to herself or not — and she's not in the business of making up something else just to force him to linger. Presumably, he's got his own evening to which he'd like to return. Maybe she shouldn't have drawn him out so late. It's just — it's only —
She knew he wouldn't have been sleeping. Just as she wasn't.
Jasnah picks up the updated portrait. Nodding in silence as she takes in the changes.
"That's all," she admits — teeth scraping her bottom lip; attention held on the drawing. Something screams in the back of her throat for her to say something, anything. Tell him to stay. Ask him how he finds his bed. Inform him that as the Queen's Wit, she has certain expectations. It all kinda turns to mush in her mouth.
Best she can manage, waving the paper lightly, is a thin: "Good work."
There. Positive feedback was something he'd wanted, right? Well. She gives it. Sorta.
Jasnah watches him. Unperturbed by the silence — its width, its depth, its freeze-frame nature as they seem to stand there a beat too long. Staring. Or, at any rate, she's staring.
He bids her good night and she doesn't bother picking it apart. Nights clearly aren't easy for either of them.
Eventually — when she's let the silence stretch a little too long herself — she starts: "Are you...?"
Hm. Her lips press into a tight line and she lets the portrait flutter back onto the desk.
Ah. Inwardly, Verso breathes a sigh of relief when Jasnah speaks again. He wouldn't have had it in himself to force this; if she'd said nothing more than good night in return, he would have turned around and walked back to his room in the dark of night.
"Not sure I ever settled in the first time around," he admits, although it's glib. He doesn't confess that he'd spent the whole night tossing and turning until he threw his pillow on the floor and slept there instead. "You?"
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"Accurate as always, ma pieuvre." Do octopi exist in Roshar? Who knows! He doesn't bother expanding. "Ready?"
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She shakes out her hands, draws herself up to her full height beneath the layers of fabric and cloak, and gives a nod toward the Windrunners. Ready. The gesture feels momentous to her. It is, quite clearly, just another weekday to them.
Lyn briskly steps in, practical and efficient, and ushers her two charges together as if aligning furniture. With a soft exhale of stormlight, she arranges them into position — close, unavoidably close — binding them side by side. Closer even still than when they'd walked, since their bodies need to be flush with one another for the bond to take. Adhesion takes hold, subtle and inexorable, fixing one of Verso's arms around Jasnah's middle. Lyn gives a stern look that brooks no argument: it's meant to shield the queen's wounded side, to turn his body into her buffer. She has no idea how naturally the thought has already occurred to him.
The result leaves them standing like conspirators caught mid-huddle: hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, arms hooked around one another's backs. There is nowhere to shift without shifting together. Jasnah becomes acutely aware of the line of his ribs, the steady warmth of him, the fact that if she sways, she will sway into him. They stand like that for a long, exquisitely uncomfortable forty seconds.
Then Lopen signals, a trio of whistled notes and a spiral of his fingers in the air. The Windrunners lift first — rising a casual six feet into the air, as if the ground has simply lost interest in them. Drehy swoops in next and applies a Basic Lashing on the two still below. Gravity loosens its grip.
Jasnah's feet leave the ground.
The sensation hits all at once: a hollowing in her stomach, a queer, stomach-flipping lightness that steals her breath. Not falling — not quite — but unmoored. Weightless. Her body protests, instincts scrambling for traction that no longer exists. Her fingers curl reflexively, and for half a heartbeat she clings to Verso not out of practicality but sheer animal reflex.
Air thickens around them as the Windrunners go to work — sculpting currents, fine-tuning vectors, shaping a loose triangular formation. The city drops away below and they all shoot upward, then hover, suspended high above the rooftops.
Lopen skates past on his back like he's swimming through the sky, grinning, and flashes them an enthusiastic double thumbs-up.
"Things are going to get breezy, ganchos," he calls.
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Uncharacteristically demonstrative, he shouts, "Whoo!"
Directly into Jasnah's poor ear, in fact. By accident, but nonetheless. Although the arm around Jasnah grips her as securely as he can, his free hand flies up, fist in the air. Unlike Jasnah, he doesn't feel queasy or unsettled or even the slightest bit afraid. This is, without a doubt, awesome.
Laughing, he glances her way—
"You're turning green," he whispers.
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Nearer, despite the audience. The need to steady herself against something is so instinctive it barely registers as a choice. And the something just happens to be him.
When he whispers instead of shouts, she has to cant her head toward his to hear. Drehy sets them onto a current and the wind surges past, tilting them horizontal in a way that has her clinging to him all over again, grip tightening, breath catching.
"How is it," she grits out through clenched teeth, "that you can stomach this but not the sea?"
A neat deflection, avoiding any commentary on the queasiness etched across her face.
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If he chose to examine the truth, he'd wonder if perhaps the only reason he feels this childlike wonder is because of a mother's memory. Because she remembers what her son was like when he was eight and loved adventure and trains better than she does when he was twenty-six and had, presumably, his own grown-up secrets to hide from her.
He doesn't choose to examine the truth, though. Not now, when he's flying through the air and experiencing the sort of uncomplicated joy he hasn't felt in 7 decades.
"Hey, don't look down," is his non-answer. "Just look at me. I won't let you fall."
Well. He won't let her get injured from a fall, technically, but that's getting into semantics.
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So she does. And she can't see all of him — all of his expression — from this too-tight angle. But she can see enough, in raw up-close detail, that she allows herself to focus on Verso. She starts by mentally mapping his scar. Her attention is high-intensity, and silent except for an uncharacteristically agreeable nod.
This could never have been possible without the weeks that preceded it. Days on days on days of sharing his personal space just to stand up and sit down. It's easy (well, easier) to trust the person whose as good as had his fingers in her guts, holding her together. And who then held her together every subsequent day.
As they clear the mountains, as Drehy's current tips them deeper into a sorta-horizontal angle, Jasnah holds tighter — turning her cheek so she can speak directly into his ear, hoping to be heard against the noisy wind.
"They'll take us back over Longbrow's Strait and the Tarat Sea. It'll be some time before you see land again. But when you do, it'll be Marat. Or perhaps Greater Hexi. Then, the mountains of Ur."
Reciting facts. Setting expectations. Controlling what she can, which happens to be a a whispered geography lesson.
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It always works better when someone goes along with it. So, as they travel high over the waters, he asks questions more befitting of Jasnah than him: is that saltwater or freshwater? How long does it go for? What sort of creatures live in the waters? Under other circumstances, they aren't the sort of questions he'd usually ask, but he nods along to every answer offered regardless as if it's the most interesting thing in the world.
He does the same as they finally make it to land. What's this place called? Who lives here? What's their culture like? Anything to keep her focused on the conversation instead of the nausea in her stomach.
Once they're finally back on the ground in Urithiru—and they manage to extricate themselves from each other—he offers an encouraging hand on her shoulder and a, "You did good." His eyes drop to her stomach for a split second, and he asks, "Still in one piece?"
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On occasion, Drehy and Lyn swap out responsibility for keeping the pair alight. And as the trip progresses — once they hit top speeds, into the mountains — it's hard to tell whether she nuzzles in close for safety or for warmth against the windchill. Conversation halts in favour of sheltering her face against his shoulder.
But then, Urithiru. The Windrunners bring them to a grand balcony at a mid-point on the tower, easing off on the Lashings until they all come to a relatively soft landing. Jasnah's heels skip-jump-trip a little as she finds her footing. Brusque and stiff, she steps back and — considering his question — nods once.
"Whole and accounted for. Thank you," she says with gratitude that's just on the far side of warm.
But then reality shutters into place. In the corner of her attention, she watches the three Windrunners snap to attention. They cross their arms over their chest in the customary Bridge Four salute. Two figures walk out onto the balcony. Well, two figures, but one is holding a toddler on her hip: Dalinar, Navani, and little Gavinor.
Steel slips back into Jasnah's spine. Even when the little boy clambers out of his grandmother's arms and comes rushing across the balcony to greet her, they both stand there like awkward solemn creatures standing off against one another and who don't quite know what to do. He pouts. He says something about how it's good that she's returned because he really didn't want to be king if she hadn't. And Jasnah awkwardly pats a gloved hand on his head, leaning down just far enough to gift him her goggles before redirecting him to play with the Windrunners. He looks so much like his father, she thinks.
"Dessendre," she says in a stern tone but soft volume as the toddler runs off. Jasnah pulls off the thicker gloves she'd worn in-flight, leaving behind just the thinner leather glove on her safehand. "Time to meet Urithiru's Bondsmiths. "
The woman — oh, well, there's no mistaking the her. This is Jasnah's mother. But it's the man — hard-faced and wearing a practical blue uniform — who reaches out and takes Jasnah by the arm. Navani hovers nearby, the very picture of a mother who would like nothing more than to embrace her daughter but doesn't quite know how to initiate the hug.
"Uncle," she pats Dalinar on the bicep. Jasnah is tall, but he's taller. "Your penmanship is improving."
Suggesting once and for all that any weird, clumsy writing on the spanreed back in Thaylen City had been this man's doing.
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waits.
He expects to be instantly introduced, as that is the polite thing to do; when she doesn't, he starts to wonder if maybe she never intended him to be introduced at all, and he takes that small step back again. But she had said it was time to meet them, so— he takes the small step forward once more.
The process repeats a few more times until he's standing behind her, quite literally twiddling his thumbs. It's too late now to jump in and introduce himself, but he's also spent too much time loitering around to just leave. He busies himself by picking at a loose thread on his shirt like it's impossibly fascinating.
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It takes Navani clearing her throat for the third time to break-up the little military tête-à-tête between her husband and her daughter. And even then, it's Dalinar who winds down the conversation. Clearly, he's a man well-accustomed to navigating the choppy waters between both Kholin women.
"Is this the 'ally' you wrote about?" Navani asks of Verso. Although she has a similar presence and composure to her, she's also evidently more of a political creature. Warm, even when she doesn't need to be. Smiling and gracious. "Are you who I have to thank for seeing my daughter back to me?"
Jasnah interjects: "Verso Dessendre — let me introduce the King and Queen of Urithiru. Dalinar and Navani."
It's complicated. They rule Urithiru as monarchs. And then there's Jasnah, who rules Alethkar. But Alethkar is occupied. So she rules from Urithiru, but doesn't rule Urithiru. Don't think about it too hard.
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He does really want to make a good impression, though—he feels surprisingly anxious at meeting people who are ostensibly important to Jasnah, whose opinions matter to her—so he puts on his most charming smile, one that's self-aware of its own charmingness. One that's rusty, yes, but has been used countless times on partygoers at fancy soirees the better part of a century ago.
"Jasnah," he scolds playfully, "you never mentioned that you have a younger sister."
Nailed it.
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Jasnah doesn't suppress the roll of her eyes or the tut at the tip of her tongue. She's always found this sort of flattery petty. Childish, even. But Navani eats it up with a toothy smile and an appropriately motherly pat-pat-pat of her freehand on Verso's arm. Deeply informal, for a monarch. It turns out safeguarding her daughter's life gains one a lot of social capital to spend.
Meanwhile, Dalinar looks perplexed. "Found him in Kharbranth?" He asks his niece, and she coolly confesses that Verso had been in Urithiru — stashed away on one of the mid-floors — for some time before this whole debacle went down. His thick eyebrows raise in surprise, but it doesn't stick around long. Jasnah likes her secrets.
Jasnah has to interject before Navani does something entirely unreasonable. Like invite the man to lunch. Just like that, she's approaching her mother. One hand has settled protectively over her wounded side. And, yes, she's still leaning just a little on Dalinar's arm. A practical affection.
"Precisely the caliber of frippery and humour one ought to expect from my Wit. It's about time the position was filled again."
Navani pauses. Now it's her turn to look perplexed. Something in her daughter's statement resonates a little too sharply.
"Wit," she gestures for Verso to leave ahead of the Kholins — employing, for the first time, the position's title. "I'll send for you later."
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He averts his eyes, a dog with its tail between its legs. "Yeah," he agrees, easily. It's a surprise to be dismissed so soon after weeks of being by her side nearly all of the day, but perhaps that's why. It would be fair to assume she's had more than enough of him. Besides, if it were Verso seeing his family again after weeks apart—
Well, their family reunion would be quite a bit more violent. But if circumstances were different, he'd want some time alone to speak with them, too. In fact, he feels a little pang in his chest at realizing he's never going to speak to his family, alone or otherwise, ever again.
"Your Majesties," he says with a cant of his head to Dalinar and Navani. Then, to Jasnah: "Your Majesty." Just a long enough pause to be a little awkward, and he adds, "See you around," before absconding.
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Lunch with her mother and uncle rolls into discussions on troop allocations rolls into someone finally convincing her to go see the surgeon and have a bath and change out of those simple Thaylen clothes. Shallan, probably. Who made it back in better shape than Jasnah did. The two have a long, strained conversation deep into the night about one particular lie the younger woman once told and how it can be leveraged now to Jasnah's benefit.
The third moon rises and she's still awake — transferring notes from one journal into a selection of different, more topics-based journals. But, storms, she's tired. An idle chat with Ivory makes her feel a little better. And...yes, in the busy mix of it all she forgets Verso entirely.
Almost entirely. When something pulls in her side like a dull ache, she thinks of him. When her loose hair tickles the back of her neck because it's not yet in a tight braid, she thinks of him. When Ivory asks a pointed question about the days he missed in Thaylen City, she thinks of him. But not once does she act on these thoughts.
— It's a full day and night and day before she feels sufficiently caught up and reestablished in the currency of her work (fighting against flashbacks to how behind-the-times she'd felt the last time she'd gone missing, albeit for so much longer) to even think about what she misses. Shelving a book, she glances over at her desk and...
Hmm.
It's late, but a runner boy is dispatched to find the Wit. Verso. Wherever he is in the tower, that boy will track him down and inform him that if he would just follow him, the Queen would like to talk. "The Alethi one," the boy adds. In case there's any confusion.
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He used to be so gifted at solitude, but he'd grown accustomed to having constant company in the past weeks; it makes the return to loneliness that much harder. As he lies on his too-soft bed, wondering again if he'll sink into it like a stone in water, he longs for Alicia and Clea's companionship. They're better off without him, but the rationality of that thought doesn't do anything to alleviate the ache. As much as he hates to admit it, he wasn't built to be alone.
That's where he is when Jasnah's runner finds him. He has to request a moment to fix his appearance given that he's spent the better part of the day moping in bed, but afterwards he does as requested, following him to wherever Jasnah might be. Despite the aforementioned combination moping-missing he's been doing, he does his best to appear at least in middling spirits.
"Hey," he says by way of greeting. "What's up?"
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The boy brings Verso to a small interior room on what must be the Kholin floor — at least, it's obvious if he's managed to match that particular shade of blue on the banners to her family. Otherwise, maybe it seems like any other floor.
The room however is undoubtedly hers. Shelves that line the walls are full to bursting with books and piles of papers. More of both seem to spill onto a wide desk with just enough space available to write — lit by a goblet of brightly infused diamonds. More gemstones sit in braziers on the walls but they're a sad stand-in for natural light (from a moon or the sun) considering there are no windows. Even the ventilation shafts high to the ceiling are mostly shuttered — so the room is just a little on the stuffy side. There's a hearth but instead of a fire it's got a little heating fabrial.
Jasnah sits at her desk. But when Verso arrives, she stands — almost smoothly. She does use the desk's edge to support those last few inches of momentum. Although her hair is down and loose, the rest of her looks much more true to form: deep purple havah; buttoned sleeve; gold bracelets and earrings. Queen, again.
She rounds the table and gestures him inside — coolly thanking the runner boy before sending him off with a garnet mark for a tip.
And because she doesn't know how to say I finally realized I missed you, she opts instead for: "I had Shallan draw up some portraits based on what I could remember about the attacker's appearance. I'd like you to have a look — and maybe sit with her too. Describe what you might have seen."
So so so businesslike.
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The current in the air also doesn't feel right to approach her any further right now, so he glances at the bookshelves instead, running a finger down the spine of what looks to be a particularly dense and boring account of history.
With a shrug: "You could have just given me some paints, you know."
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She pauses with her fingers on the portrait pages. It's not surprise, really. More like that old habitual curiosity wiggling its way into her reaction. And, oh, okay. Maybe a little bit of surprise. But only because (again) it's unusual for her to meet a man who paints. But it was clumsy of her to have forgotten the cardbacks and the royals.
— So she closes the distance between them and holds out a couple pages each with a few different treatments. Based on the written description Jasnah had tried to set to paper as soon as she could sit at the end-table after she'd regained consciousness. Shallan's work is impeccable. Whether or not the description is accurate is more Jasnah's responsibility, but the artist had nevertheless breathed such tender life into what amounts to little more than a mugshot.
"How about charcoal?"
These portraits are in charcoal and — doubling back to her desk after handing them off — she returns with a little wooden box with bits of charcoal wrapped in cloth.
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"But his shoulders are— and his nose was a little more—" Verso lowers the papers, reaching for a piece of charcoal. "Can I?"
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The only concession she'll make is in carefully displacing criticism off Shallan and onto herself: "My memories of what happened and how he appeared are — loose. At best. She might have done better with a better description."
Nevertheless, she holds the box ajar for Verso and lets him pick whatever piece pleases him. Storms, she even invites him — with a gesture — to sit at the desk if he'd like a work surface.
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Finally: "There." He steps back, leaving the papers on the desk as he drops the charcoal back in the box.
"—Was that all?"
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His question draws a frown. Before now — while he'd been amending Shallan's work, a liberty she didn't even think twice of affording him over another artists work incidentally — Jasnah had been standing stiff and solemn off to the side of her study. Safehand covered and loose at her hip; freehand braced gently against her side.
Unfortunately, that was all. The breadth of the excuse she'd managed to drum up to see him again — whether or not she admits it to herself or not — and she's not in the business of making up something else just to force him to linger. Presumably, he's got his own evening to which he'd like to return. Maybe she shouldn't have drawn him out so late. It's just — it's only —
She knew he wouldn't have been sleeping. Just as she wasn't.
Jasnah picks up the updated portrait. Nodding in silence as she takes in the changes.
"That's all," she admits — teeth scraping her bottom lip; attention held on the drawing. Something screams in the back of her throat for her to say something, anything. Tell him to stay. Ask him how he finds his bed. Inform him that as the Queen's Wit, she has certain expectations. It all kinda turns to mush in her mouth.
Best she can manage, waving the paper lightly, is a thin: "Good work."
There. Positive feedback was something he'd wanted, right? Well. She gives it. Sorta.
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Silence stretches out.
"...Well, good night," he says, not going.
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He bids her good night and she doesn't bother picking it apart. Nights clearly aren't easy for either of them.
Eventually — when she's let the silence stretch a little too long herself — she starts: "Are you...?"
Hm. Her lips press into a tight line and she lets the portrait flutter back onto the desk.
"Have you settled back into the tower?"
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"Not sure I ever settled in the first time around," he admits, although it's glib. He doesn't confess that he'd spent the whole night tossing and turning until he threw his pillow on the floor and slept there instead. "You?"
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