recreatable | open post.

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."

Nailed it.

Oh, for storms' sake.

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.

One thing leads to another.

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.

"Hey," he says by way of greeting. "What's up?"

What a great question. What, indeed, is up?

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.

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."

Edited 2026-01-28 20:33 (UTC)

...Oh?

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.

"—Was that all?"

...Ohx2.

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.

"Thanks," is accompanied by a nod of acknowledgement as he backsteps away from her desk.

Silence stretches out.

"...Well, good night," he says, not going.

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.

"Have you settled back into the tower?"

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?"

Her?

She gestures briefly to the desk. Papers piling up. Notebooks, opened to various pages. No less than three (3!) spanreeds blinking with little cries for attention. Rank and title come with privilege, no doubt about it. But there's also no doubt that Jasnah is a working royal.

"As if I never left."

Plus or minus a few nrw vulnerabilities. And that includes more than her injury.

"Good," he comments. "That's good."

It's astounding, really, how this can feel so awkward and stilted after he'd so readily confessed his most secret feelings to her in the dark, on Jochi's floor. He grasps for words before finally settling on:

"—You resemble your mother."

Context is king. And until today, they've been contextless. Someone else's space. Even in Kharbranth. But now Jasnah had a hundred little advantages to fall back upon.

Still. There's something nonetheless human in how she snorts a dry, aggravated chuckle.

"What mother?" She levels Verso with a cutting look. "Oh. You must mean my...what did you say? Younger sister. What tomfoolery."

Well, there's some context. It's been days, Jasnah! Move on!!!

"I just said that to be nice," he defends. Actually, he'd said it in the hopes that it would make her mother like him, but that's a potayto-potahto situation. Regardless, it had just been meant as a polite compliment, that's all. The little old ladies at the Dessendre soirees used to go crazy for that.

With no understanding of why Jasnah might have actually found the comment displeasing, he says, "Obviously, you're the more youthful between you two."

Somehow, his attempt at tidying up his mess just smears more mess — at least that's true if her expression is anything to by. Her lip curls. What does it matter? Why is so much fuss made about appearances? Because that's what the compliment was at its heart. A wry, complicit joke about what's valuable about a woman. And maybe she'd thought better of him.

She may look like her mother but, storms, she's got her father's temper.

Another part of Jasnah reminds her that it's foolish to get so heated. If anything, such flippant superficial commentary cleaves almost too well to the role of the Wit. Hoid would tease her and scold her for letting it get under her skin. For letting him get under her skin.

So. A short, stabilizing breath.

"You ought to be cautious around Navani." She decides to skin this mink from a different direction. "She's got teeth."

"I would assume so," he says, "given that she's your mother."

Jasnah had to have inherited those teeth from somewhere.

But clearly, he's made another misstep. Merde, sometimes it feels as if it's one step forward and two steps backward with Jasnah. An unpleasant waltz that she refuses to let him lead.

He's not proud of the passive-aggression that slips into his voice when he asks, "Would you have preferred I stayed seen and not heard?" Seeing as she didn't even want to introduce him, that she'd had to be prompted.

Paradox that she is, Jasnah finds the implication about her own bite preferable to all this faff and circumstance around being nice but telling a stately woman whose earned her greys some lie about looking as though she could be her daughter's younger sister. As she'd stated aloud: tomfoolery.

But the heat gets into her blood. Ultimately, her little meditative breath counts for little and less. And she can feel herself winding up for an argument. Good. Yes. She could use one of those. Her jaw works a moment, thinking through her response.

"False equivalency — assuming that because I take issue to the one statement that I would have taken issue with any statement."

Can't even argue in a personal manner.

Ooh, that pisses him off so bad. Unlike Jasnah, though, it's not in his nature to come out teeth and claws bared. This prodromal state before an impending argument doesn't feel good. It feels like shit.

"Another academic discussion," he mutters. "Riveting."

His muttering sticks in her craw. The way he circles the fight — offering commentary but little else — leaves behind a dissatisfied hollowness. She'd like something to tear into. Or else to navigate.

She chews the side of her tongue. So be it. A fight with a willing partner is rousing. Energizing. But such a passive response—? Jasnah returns to her desk, taking a stiff seat on a high-backed chair.

"Academic is what I am, Dessendre." She counters. "It can't be helped. But I won't keep you up for discussions you've no interest in."

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