recreatable | open post.

"I started on your account, remember?" he asks, not unkind but still pointing out the fact that he was playing for her. Since she'd fallen asleep, there had been no real reason to continue. Besides, it's probably quite rude of him to be playing piano in the night like this. Someone's going to make a complaint if he does it again.

He stands, dusting his hands off—

"It's dark. I'll walk you back."

She ought to agree. She ought to stand, too. At the very least, she ought to scoff and tell him she knows her own way back through the tower — thank you kindly — and leave him behind. It would be nearer to every other move she's made this past week, letting the shutters tighten between them.

But going back means clock-watching and wondering whether every flickering shadow is a hoardling spy and checking all the spines of her books and caps of her inkwells for cremlings.

So Jasnah hesitates. And, casting a glance around the room, she looks for an excuse. Her eyes fall on the thick tome that kicked so much off — the history text she'd initially lent to him. No, that's no use. Would hate to bore him with another dry academic discussion.

Instead — she picks up the fabrial clock from the desk and, flipping it onto its front and toying with the gemstone cage, she claims: "It looks like the gemstone inside has gone dun."

Going back to sleep in her own bed rather than on a strange man's desk is the reasonable thing to do here, and he'd expected her to agree; the hard part, he'd thought, would be convincing her to allow him to accompany her back. He's already ready to leave when she turns over the clock, and in return, he raises a brow.

"Oh," he says, not really sure what else to say to that strange conversational turn. "All right. I guess I'll need to replace it, then."

There's a second's pause. A little awkward. "Not sure if I'd classify that as urgent, though."

Unlike her mother, Jasnah doesn't carry a travel-sized set of delicate fabrial tools ideal for tinkering with small latches and catches and cages. But with a bit of jockeying, she tugs the mechanism open. Her gaze falls on the smokestone within — another passable excuse, this time to avoid looking at him.

Something twists in her stomach. For someone who considers it a cardinal virtue not to lie to herself, this feels awfully close to self-deception. She rattles the smokestone in situ.

"I'd prefer to stay."

He sits back down on the bench, warring with himself. It's an objectively stupid thing to do to hover in this friend-adjacent space when she's made it clear that the feeling isn't returned, but— Verso has done a lot of objectively stupid things. The time he'd dived off of the Stone Wave Cliffs and cracked his head open on a rock on the way down; the numerous times he couldn't identify if a mushroom was poison and ate it anyway; the time he'd volunteered for gestral beach volleyball to impress Julie and ended up getting hit in the face.

Adding another stupid action to the list, he asks, softly and a bit hesitantly, "Is something wrong?"

Smokestone, she thinks — recites, really — into the ringing quiet of her own head. Sleep still clings stubbornly to the edges of her thoughts, a gauze she needs to cut through before she can proceed. So: smokestone. Used in conventional Soulcasting to produce smoke, fog, gas. Its body focus is exhalation.

So she exhales. The breath steadies her, and with it comes a brief, unexpected flicker of gratitude that Ivory agreed to remain behind, ostensibly to watch for strange cremlings. His presence here would have doubled the humiliation. Or worse — he would have murmured your fear is in that infuriatingly patient way of his and pressed her to name it aloud.

Ah. There! She works the smokestone free and rolls it between finger and thumb, the familiar weight anchoring her in the present.

"My paranoia has gotten the better of me, tonight," she says at last, lightly. Boldly owning her fatal trait out loud.

Edited 2026-02-01 03:48 (UTC)

"You're worried," he says in lieu of saying you're scared. Of course she is. She's only barely recovered from the assassination attempt, and it must have been a traumatic experience. He'd be scared, too, if he were in her shoes (and capable of dying in the first place).

The fear, he understands. The fact that it's made her choose to be here, with him, of all places and all people—that, he doesn't. Verso frowns faintly. She treats him like a close comfort one moment and someone who needs to stay two steps behind her the next.

"Isn't there—" Somebody else you'd rather be with right now? embarrasses him before he's even said it. He talks around it. "You know. A friend?" The thing she's been quite emphatic that he is not.

Edited 2026-02-01 03:54 (UTC)

Jasnah doesn't bristle at the word worried. She accepts it with a small, inward recalibration. Better than paranoid, at any rate. Her fingers curl around the smokestone, thumb tracing its surface, grounding herself in something cool and known.

"I don't need a friend," she says, quietly and more practical than defensive. "I need to feel safe."

It sounds, on reflection, like something a very very very friendless person might say. Someone who doesn't quite understand how those two things can be one in the same. Or perhaps like someone whose only real friend is also the axis around which her powers (and therefore her sense of nigh-invulnerability usually turns — but Ivory doesn't know any lullabies.

She exhales through her nose and glances, almost despite herself, toward the piano.

"And I thought," she adds, after a moment, "that those afternoons and nights on the divan were the safest-feeling sleep I've had in years."

Not saccharine. Just an observation, offered with the faintest edge of self-reproach — as though she's mildly irritated with herself for discovering it only now.

Verso laughs. Not humorously, mind you—it's dry, mirthless. "You— baffle me."

Not the response she might have expected, maybe. At any other time, he would have been thrilled to hear this. All he's ever wanted is to be that for somebody he cares about; someone who can provide protection, safety, instead of just hurting them with his corrosive touch. To hear it from Jasnah should feel good—and it does, but that's the problem. He's being jerked around, he realizes, at Jasnah's will.

"I might as well be the background furniture for you all week," he says, "and then you decide to come here when you're too scared to sleep."

Jasnah stills.

She balances the smokestone on the desk — by its point — and holds it there with the barest pressure of a fingertip. She despises this sensation: the recognition of a misstep made not for the first time but along a well-worn fault line. Storms. It has been some time since she last thought of Tyvneri and Lorieta, and yet the feeling is the same. Chagrin, sharp and unwelcome. A clean incision beneath her ribs, well above the site of her actual wound. She notes it. Files it away. She doesn't indulge it.

Outwardly, her posture firms.

"You're upset," she says. Evenly. Not apologetic.

The smokestone balances on its own for a breath before her fingers close around it again. She considers telling him he's wrong — telling him that restraint is not the same thing as disregard — but the protest feels too loud, too defensive. And Jasnah has never believed that volume improves an argument.

Jasnah has just pointed out the obvious, but perhaps it was necessary, because he blurts out an immediate, defensive, "I'm not upset." Like he's been accused of a shameful crime. All the same, his face reddens a little in the dim light, either from the upset he's been accused of or the flustering that the accusation caused (or both).

Hands interlocked in his lap, he fidgets with his fingers, running a thumb up and down the blade of his hand. While she looks at the smokestone, he looks down at his hands. He wishes this conversation was happening between them while he was lying on the floor in front of the divan; it felt less nauseating to bare his real thoughts and feelings then.

"I just don't understand." His lip curls as he feels a vague sense of mortification. "If you really don't care for me as a friend, then at least cut me loose."

Hadn't she already told him? She's not good at this part — making friends, keeping them. Only now does it fully register that naming her weakness doesn't absolve her of the obligation to work around it. Or — no — that realization had arrived days ago. She simply refused to meet it head-on. Too busy, as ever, setting herself aside in service of Alethkar.

Only it seems that in setting herself aside, she set him aside too. She hadn't anticipated how much that might matter to him. Background furniture, he'd said.

Be kinder, Hoid's maddening addendum had urged. And now she has to wonder whether his counsel came from detached observation or his own uncomfortable experience. Except, no, he would never—

Stop it, Jasnah.

Instead of circling defensively, she does what she does best: identifies a faulty assumption. In this case, the faulty assumption is that the hours spent shoulder-to-shoulder in Thaylen City were incidental. That they meant less to him than they did to her. She replaces the original conclusion with a cleaner hypothesis and lets the data realign around it. All of this occurs while she ignores the smokestone entirely and simply looks at him.

She realizes all at once that the choice isn't complicated. It's merely inconvenient. Personally inconvenient.

"I'd rather have you as a friend than a Wit," she says, evenly. "If I have to choose."

Edited 2026-02-01 12:22 (UTC)

"But you don't want me to be both," he points out, although it sounds more like an accusation than he intends. Still, there's no point taking it back when it's true. Or, more accurately, she doesn't seem to want him to be both at the same time. He can be one or the other when it suits her most, but never both.

If she's looking at him, he can't tell. He hasn't looked up from his hands this entire time. Like maybe if he looks at them hard enough the humiliation will cause him to burst into flame and finally be unmade.

"What, do I embarrass you?"

Jasnah doesn't flinch at his accusation. Mostly because she finds it absurd, knowing how intently does indeed want him to be both. Some version of both. How in public she wants a Wit who is precise and disciplined and loyal to the role; how in private she wants someone — yes, perhaps a friend — who challenges her and argues and refuses to be ornamental. To her, these aren't contradictory. To her, it's simply situational. But she's a creature who already carves off and quarantines parts of herself with ease.

Smokestone, she thinks, is also associated with confidence. And justice. Two things she tries to enshrine, but which currently feel like they're slipping through her fingers.

"I am not embarrassed."

Although she hesitates. Realistically she is embarrassed — but by herself more than him. By the notion that she might need more than what she has when there's so much still to accomplish.

"But I am wary of those who would use you against me if I allow the line to blur so carelessly. Verso — I don't have friends. Not the way you mean it. There wasn't anywhere else I could go, tonight."

It's him. Only him.

"—And I couldn't possibly understand, given my vast collection of friends."

He doesn't have friends, either. Didn't, even before tripping onto Roshar unaccompanied by anyone familiar. He's familiar with the concept of holding others at arm's length to protect yourself—he's been doing it longer than Jasnah has been alive. The only companion he's had in 67 years that wasn't brought into existence solely for his benefit, and it's her. He really knows how to pick 'em.

Another thing he's been doing longer than she's been alive: having circular arguments. After having so many of them with Renoir—the same argument over and over again, for decades on end—he can recognize a discussion that'll lead nowhere but will make him feel bad from a mile away.

"Forget it. I'm just tired." It isn't like he's been sleeping well the past week. Or the past century. "You can take the bed, if you like." Since that's why she came here, isn't it? "Think I might actually like the floor better, anyway."

It is not — storms alight — a competition over whose social circle is the most threadbare. The anger rises anyway, hot and reflexive, pressing at the back of her throat with accusations she does not voice. He was the one who suggested — mere moments ago — that she go elsewhere if she was frightened. Isn't there, you know, a friend? His words.

And there isn't. All she's done is answered the question and he's twisted it into a contest that doesn't exist.

Her jaw sets. She decides, with a clarity that feels almost punitive, that the entire attempt may have been a mistake. She is of the Ten Fools. For now, by his reaction, it would seem that seeking his company is just as offensive as declining it. So why play a hand she can't win?

Jasnah pushes back her chair and rises, one hand braced on the desk to steady herself. She casts a glance around the room, nodding once, as if confirming a conclusion already reached. Yes. It was her mistake to reach out tonight. Her greed, and its being repaid. Hers is a shaky exhale as she crosses the room — not toward the bed, but toward the door.

She will take her chances with the cremlings. Because for all they've frustrated each other and fought before now, this is the first moment since the attack where being near him does not feel unequivocally better.

"I'll send it back re-infused," she says, lifting the smokestone and giving it a brief, perfunctory wag — once, twice, thrice.

He feels guilty. Which is not an unfamiliar feeling, but is a strange one to have right now. Jasnah isn't the one who has the right to feel hurt here. She isn't the one who took a chance on someone only to find they didn't want to take a chance on her. All the same, there's the distinct feeling of having done something wrong. The sensations are identical, at least: a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, extra tension in his neck and shoulders.

"Don't be ridiculous," he scolds. "Take the bed."

If it had been irritating that she wanted to stay, it's even more bothersome that she wants to go. As much as it feels like he can't do anything right in her eyes, maybe he's put her in an inescapable trap, too. He's not in the headspace to examine that right now, so he packs that realization away.

"Just take the bed, Jasnah. You can be angry with me in the morning."

Her teeth grit. In the span of only a few minutes she has apparently managed to be baffling and ridiculous — by his accounting. And, fine. She leaves room for those possibilities. She is capable of self-critique. What needles is that every attempt to talk her way out of the whitespine den only seems to drive her deeper into it.

It's unfamiliar. Uncanny. Ordinarily, this is where she excels — parrying words with words, tightening logic until there is nowhere left to stand. No ardent has ever truly cornered her that way, though a few from the Devotary of Sincerity came uncomfortably close.

But this debate is not being fought on the terrain of logic. It is being fought on feeling, and she finds her footing far, far too slippery here.

She pauses at the door and turns back. Ah — another adjective, set neatly at her feet. Angry, now. To join baffling and ridiculous.

"I'm not angry," she says, her voice tight and certainly angry-adjacent. Storms, she can almost see the angerspren bubbling up like blood from the ground. Then, after the barest hesitation: "At least, not with you."

Clipped, sarcastic: "Right. Of course. You're downright chipper."

Hypocritical of him, considering he'd instantly denied being upset when she'd called him out. It somehow feels fine—morally just, even—to conceal his true feelings from her, but offensive and insulting to have hers hidden from him.

"At least be angry and well-rested." At least be angry in his room, instead of angry across the tower. There's already an emotional gulf between them; there doesn't need to be a physical one, too. "Think of how much more articulate you'll be when you yell at me."

Cogs turn. Pages flip. Something is happening behind her eyes — a quick accounting of what she needs versus what she wants versus what happens if she walks alone back to her quarters. It would be one thing if she thought she might get some work done, but in reality she knows she'll be tearing apart every drawer and fabrial (not unlike how she disassembled the clock) looking for additional evidence. Storms, one of those spies once tucked themselves tight into the mechanism of one of Hoid's pens. And in so doing, spilled all their secrets to the Ghostbloods.

He's right. At least be angry and well-rested. Her shoulders sink; she shuts her eyes, but briefly, and rubs the edge of a thumb against her temple. She's so very tired. How did she cope before she could burn stormlight?

Jasnah relents, walking back into the room and approaching the bed. Nevertheless, she still goes toe-to-toe with his sarcasm: "Because those are the only two options: chipper or angry. Nary an emotion in between."

Verso's eyebrow twitches. "You—" He visibly smothers down whatever it is that he'd been about to impulsively blurt out, but it's not too hard to figure out what it would have been. Something like you're impossible. Another descriptor to add to the list.

Instead of saying that, though, he takes a deep breath in through his nose as he watches her near his bed. Ridiculous, really, that he feels a sense of relief at the fact that she's chosen to stay here and make irritating little comments, but he's grown very used to the feeling of being unhappy with someone but still wanting them near.

"Please educate me then, professor, on what you're feeling." It's unreasonable to look down on a student for not knowing the curriculum when she's never taught it to him.

Oh. The unfinished sentence still nets him a sharp glance — a twitch of her own eyebrow like ornery little mirror. But it only lasts as long as it takes to sit (just at the foot of the bed, working in increments) and stabilize herself with both hands pressed against the mattress. The smokestone still pinched between her fingers.

But then he says please educate me and it doesn't matter how sarcastic he might still be, she feels herself slip easily into the opening. So — what is she feeling? There is no easy, instinctual answer. Jasnah rifles through her dread and her annoyance and the claustrophobic ways in which she feels caught between bad options. You can't think a feeling. You have to feel it.

Storms, she hates feeling.

"Fearful," she starts — picking an easy one because she's already confessed it. And because it's just as political as it is personal. "Every day we don't march to reclaim Alethkar, Odium's forces will get more and more entrenched in our cities. There will be lands we won't win back."

He's been in the meetings and the coalition conversations — albeit as 'background furniture,' as he'd put it. She expects him to have at least paid cursory attention to the trade-offs being made in those conversations.

"That, I already knew," he responds. "It may surprise you, but I have two working ears." He shoots a pointed look her way, eyes finally on her face for the first time in the past few minutes. "Some have even argued there's something between them, although I've yet to see any evidence to that effect."

He stares expectantly. Not saying it outright, but clear with his reaction all the same. Her response was unsatisfactory.

There he is. Regardless of how embroiled and embattled they are with one another, Jasnah finds satisfaction in how his gaze finally finally finally meets her own. She holds that eye contact, not shying away from it even as he peels back the first predictable layer of her answer. And her attention searches him. She has to stop herself from asking the questions she'd ask herself with her sights set on someone else: where to cut? Where to apply pressure? How much?

A brief shake of her head, directed more to herself than to him.

"Furious," she concedes her anger but by another word. "Furious with Dalinar for committing troops to help Herdaz when those numbers could have been sent to free our homeland."

He can't have known that much. Could he? She'd kept her reactions careful, measured, practical during the meetings themselves no matter how tempted she'd been to tear into her uncle for adhering to promises he never should have made. Ah, well. Perhaps he'd intuited it. He was better at catching her buried reactions, at times, than her own family. Likely because she'd already browbeaten her relatives into not scratching the surface.

Verso presses his mouth into a thin line. He knows what it feels like to have a lost home you can never return to, but admittedly, not what it feels like to have one that you could return to if only you had the manpower. He can imagine how it must feel, though. If he had the ability for things to be the way they were before, but was helpless to actually achieve it—

Yes, he'd probably be furious.

"Fearful," he repeats, "and furious." Not exactly the large spectrum she'd been trying to claim, but he doesn't say that now. He probably shouldn't comment at all until he's certain she's finished, even though he has the urge to. "Anything else?"

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