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?"
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.
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:
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."
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."
He doesn't believe that academic is what she is. He believes it's a defense mechanism, a way for her to distance herself. She doesn't have to bare any parts of herself that she doesn't want to if all she does is quote one of the books on these shelves. When she argues against emotion from a purely intellectual standpoint, she can always position herself as higher, more evolved.
Verso could push, if he really wanted to. Make another comment to get her dander up all over again. The truth is, though, he's less angry than he is disappointed—not in her, exactly, but in the situation. Not a moment since they've been back has gone the way he'd expected it to. Certainly not the way he wanted it to. He's starting to wonder if everything that happened on the ship and in Thaylen City was just a fluke.
"Good night," he says softly, and this time he really does leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Not only can she position herself as higher — more evolved — but she can almost always contort herself into believing she's had some manner of last word. It helps the anxiety subside. Ebb away. Reduce by degrees with each new aggressive line she scores into parchment. Tonight, even without stormlight to abuse, she's getting no sleep. She crams work and study and tactics into every hollow, ringing corner of her mind, crowding out anything soft or unguarded. There's no room left where she might feel his absence. That, at least, is the theory.
Meanwhile.
When Verso returns to his own quarters, there's a surprise waiting for him.
Before he even reaches the door, he can hear it: his piano being played. Not tentatively. Not poorly. But with a breezy, impish confidence — a jaunty, wandering melody that suggests the player has already tested the acoustics, adjusted the bench, and decided the instrument meets with approval.
Inside, sprawled at the keys as if the room were a borrowed jacket he'd grown fond of, sits a lanky Alethi man. Long legs crossed at the ankle, posture terrible, fingers nimble. He doesn't stop when Verso enters. If anything, he embellishes — tossing in a flourish that feels pointedly unnecessary, like a bow performed without ever standing up.
The room bears subtle evidence of occupation. A book opened face-down. The man at the piano plays on, humming softly under his breath, utterly at ease in a space that is not his — or perhaps convinced, by sheer confidence alone, that it is. Verso wasn't gone that long. Whoever it is, he'd likely been waiting for the chance.
Only after several beats does he glance over his shoulder, smile crooked and unapologetic, and continue playing anyway.
Although he isn't afraid of the stranger in his room—he has no reason to be, when there's no permanent harm that could ever come to him—Verso had been looking forward to marinating in his negative emotions in private, so the appearance of a new challenger is unpleasant. The sight of foreign hands all over his piano is even more unpleasant.
—Although he'll admit the music sounds nice. It's been a long time since he got to listen to anyone else play the piano artfully. Strange. Hadn't Jasnah said they didn't have pianos on Roshar?
He stands there in the doorway, frowning back at that irritatingly charming grin. There's nothing here that says 'danger'. Maybe 'escaped mental patient', but not 'danger'. "It's impolite to play another man's instrument," he says, raising his voice over the sound of piano keys being pressed.
If anything, he leans into it — lets the phrase resolve cleanly, fingers lifting with deliberate restraint before drifting straight back into the melody, softer now, like he's decided to make room for conversation. He glances back at Verso over his shoulder, smile still in place, irritatingly pleased with itself.
"Ah," he says, lightly, "see, that's where we differ. You think it's impolite. I think it's a compliment. I only touch instruments that deserve it." A pause, just long enough to let that land. "People too, but that's a longer conversation."
Hoid lets the music taper off this time — not a full stop, just a soft wandering cadence that dissolves into silence. His fingers linger on the keys a second longer than necessary, like they're reluctant to leave. He finally turns on the bench, one leg hooked over the other, one hand still resting on the keys as though they might wander back into a tune at any moment.
"Speaking of people, most who belong somewhere have a certain — rhythm to them. They move in time with the place. Even when they're unhappy about it. And that's especially true here."
Edited (forgot to actually add a sentence for him to STOP playing.) 2026-01-29 01:59 (UTC)
Ah, okay. Definitely an escaped mental patient. "Come on," he says, beckoning with a gesture. "I'm sure you have a carer somewhere who's worried sick about you."
"Oh, that's a good one," he says — and then actually chuckles and slaps his knee once for emphasis. "Fine delivery. Just enough concern to sell it. Keep that up and you'll do wonderfully as the Queen's Wit."
He rises from the bench at last — stretching like a cat. And although he steps closer, he stops well short of Verso's personal space, hands spread in a show of peace that somehow manages to look theatrical.
"You," he says with a mild rise in his brows, "are a half-beat off. Not a Rosharan rhythm at all, at all. Don't worry," he adds with a conciliatory rush. "I won't tell anyone. People get very strange about that sort of thing."
That's not so impressive. Nearly anyone could tell that he isn't from around here—that he's not Alethi, at least. He has to roll up the cuffs of his too-long trousers so that they don't drag on the floor. And plenty of people heard Jasnah refer to him as the Wit the other day, so—
"I don't have any money, if that's what you're after." If this is some strange extortion to keep his foreign status a secret.
Hoid's grin fades — not all at once, but like a curtain being drawn with care. The levity doesn't vanish so much as fold itself away. Neatly. As if he's decided this is no longer the moment for it.
"Oh, stars, no," he says mildly. "If I wanted money, I'd already have it. Along with your shoes. Possibly that — is that a bob?"
A thoughtful hum, as if he's considering it for his next haircut — and then a shake of his head. He sobers fully, meeting Verso's eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, steadier. The tone of someone who knows exactly when a joke would be the wrong instrument.
"I need you to pass along a message," he says, "to the Queen."
He draws an envelope from inside his jacket.
"The Ghostbloods are active again on Roshar. Not merely sniffing around the edges. Active. They've taken an interest in her before, and they don't tend to admire people twice without acting."
It's clear he thinks this ought to be very fresh, very fascinating news.
Verso stares back, eyes blank and uncomprehending. He doesn't know anything about a Ghostblood, or what it means for them to be 'active' (or 'sniffing around the edges', for that matter). Uncharitably, he thinks that it's some more of that political stuff Jasnah can't ever stop talking about.
He glances at the envelope in his unwanted visitor's hands, and then, because he's been put in a Mood™ post-Jasnah, walks past him to go close the opened book he must have been perusing.
"You can tell her yourself," he says, smoothing out the spine.
"I'd love to," he answers. "Truly. Nothing would make my evening brighter than strolling up to the Queen and announcing myself like a badly timed punchline."
He tilts his head, considering the ceiling as if calculating orbital mechanics in his head. "But I would very much prefer she not know I was here. Not yet. Ideally not until I'm well and truly clear of the planetary system. Possibly several light-years clear. For health reasons."
He taps his chest once. Reasons to do with my health implied.
Ah. It all clicks into place. This is the man Jasnah fired. Verso wants, suddenly, to ask if she'd been as critical then, too, or if it's just because she's found a defect in him specifically. He doesn't. Just as much as he wants to ask, he doesn't want to know the answer.
He does, however, turn back and hold out a hand, fingers curling and uncurling to indicate that he wants the envelope. "Fine. I'll drop your letter off."
Hoid has never met someone else's dark mood he didn't feel compelled to brighten — well, except for Torol Sadeas. And Rayse. And Captain Crow. And...look, the point is that he often finds himself in places he didn't expect to be for reasons he doesn't understand. Fortune compels him to end up where he needs to be to make some difference. So now, despite having desperately wanted moments ago to put the envelope into Verso's hand and be gone, he withholds it.
"Mm. That look. Yes. I know that one."
He lifts the envelope just out of reach — not to be cruel, more like he's buying a moment. "She's a hard woman to work for, isn't she? She listens like she's weighing stones in her hand. Deciding which ones she can build with, and which ones she should drop in the river. Exacting standards." A pause, almost mischievous. "And a dreadful habit of assuming everyone else enjoys being held to them."
It's part sympathy, part nosiness — but the interest is real.
Verso's hand reaches up for the envelope, but annoyingly, he's shorter than everyone here. A tough pill to swallow for someone who used to do this exact thing to his sisters to irritate them with his natural height advantage. Now he understands why Clea would smack him for it.
"There's nothing to talk about," he says, lowering his hand and crossing his arms.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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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.
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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."
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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."
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"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."
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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."
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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.
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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.
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"Another academic discussion," he mutters. "Riveting."
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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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Verso could push, if he really wanted to. Make another comment to get her dander up all over again. The truth is, though, he's less angry than he is disappointed—not in her, exactly, but in the situation. Not a moment since they've been back has gone the way he'd expected it to. Certainly not the way he wanted it to. He's starting to wonder if everything that happened on the ship and in Thaylen City was just a fluke.
"Good night," he says softly, and this time he really does leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.
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Meanwhile.
When Verso returns to his own quarters, there's a surprise waiting for him.
Before he even reaches the door, he can hear it: his piano being played. Not tentatively. Not poorly. But with a breezy, impish confidence — a jaunty, wandering melody that suggests the player has already tested the acoustics, adjusted the bench, and decided the instrument meets with approval.
Inside, sprawled at the keys as if the room were a borrowed jacket he'd grown fond of, sits a lanky Alethi man. Long legs crossed at the ankle, posture terrible, fingers nimble. He doesn't stop when Verso enters. If anything, he embellishes — tossing in a flourish that feels pointedly unnecessary, like a bow performed without ever standing up.
The room bears subtle evidence of occupation. A book opened face-down. The man at the piano plays on, humming softly under his breath, utterly at ease in a space that is not his — or perhaps convinced, by sheer confidence alone, that it is. Verso wasn't gone that long. Whoever it is, he'd likely been waiting for the chance.
Only after several beats does he glance over his shoulder, smile crooked and unapologetic, and continue playing anyway.
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—Although he'll admit the music sounds nice. It's been a long time since he got to listen to anyone else play the piano artfully. Strange. Hadn't Jasnah said they didn't have pianos on Roshar?
He stands there in the doorway, frowning back at that irritatingly charming grin. There's nothing here that says 'danger'. Maybe 'escaped mental patient', but not 'danger'. "It's impolite to play another man's instrument," he says, raising his voice over the sound of piano keys being pressed.
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If anything, he leans into it — lets the phrase resolve cleanly, fingers lifting with deliberate restraint before drifting straight back into the melody, softer now, like he's decided to make room for conversation. He glances back at Verso over his shoulder, smile still in place, irritatingly pleased with itself.
"Ah," he says, lightly, "see, that's where we differ. You think it's impolite. I think it's a compliment. I only touch instruments that deserve it." A pause, just long enough to let that land. "People too, but that's a longer conversation."
Hoid lets the music taper off this time — not a full stop, just a soft wandering cadence that dissolves into silence. His fingers linger on the keys a second longer than necessary, like they're reluctant to leave. He finally turns on the bench, one leg hooked over the other, one hand still resting on the keys as though they might wander back into a tune at any moment.
"Speaking of people, most who belong somewhere have a certain — rhythm to them. They move in time with the place. Even when they're unhappy about it. And that's especially true here."
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He rises from the bench at last — stretching like a cat. And although he steps closer, he stops well short of Verso's personal space, hands spread in a show of peace that somehow manages to look theatrical.
"You," he says with a mild rise in his brows, "are a half-beat off. Not a Rosharan rhythm at all, at all. Don't worry," he adds with a conciliatory rush. "I won't tell anyone. People get very strange about that sort of thing."
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"I don't have any money, if that's what you're after." If this is some strange extortion to keep his foreign status a secret.
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"Oh, stars, no," he says mildly. "If I wanted money, I'd already have it. Along with your shoes. Possibly that — is that a bob?"
A thoughtful hum, as if he's considering it for his next haircut — and then a shake of his head. He sobers fully, meeting Verso's eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, steadier. The tone of someone who knows exactly when a joke would be the wrong instrument.
"I need you to pass along a message," he says, "to the Queen."
He draws an envelope from inside his jacket.
"The Ghostbloods are active again on Roshar. Not merely sniffing around the edges. Active. They've taken an interest in her before, and they don't tend to admire people twice without acting."
It's clear he thinks this ought to be very fresh, very fascinating news.
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He glances at the envelope in his unwanted visitor's hands, and then, because he's been put in a Mood™ post-Jasnah, walks past him to go close the opened book he must have been perusing.
"You can tell her yourself," he says, smoothing out the spine.
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"I'd love to," he answers. "Truly. Nothing would make my evening brighter than strolling up to the Queen and announcing myself like a badly timed punchline."
He tilts his head, considering the ceiling as if calculating orbital mechanics in his head. "But I would very much prefer she not know I was here. Not yet. Ideally not until I'm well and truly clear of the planetary system. Possibly several light-years clear. For health reasons."
He taps his chest once. Reasons to do with my health implied.
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He does, however, turn back and hold out a hand, fingers curling and uncurling to indicate that he wants the envelope. "Fine. I'll drop your letter off."
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"Mm. That look. Yes. I know that one."
He lifts the envelope just out of reach — not to be cruel, more like he's buying a moment. "She's a hard woman to work for, isn't she? She listens like she's weighing stones in her hand. Deciding which ones she can build with, and which ones she should drop in the river. Exacting standards." A pause, almost mischievous. "And a dreadful habit of assuming everyone else enjoys being held to them."
It's part sympathy, part nosiness — but the interest is real.
"Would you like to talk about it?"
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"There's nothing to talk about," he says, lowering his hand and crossing his arms.
A beat—
"She's always like that?"
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