[ Insufferable, bizarre, horrific—that's him. But he doesn't want to make her feel too embarrassed for not knowing, so he concedes: ]
It can be intimate, under the right circumstances.
[ He'd be lying if he'd said he'd never used dancing as an excuse to push his luck with someone that he shouldn't. (Hey, it's almost like that's a pattern.) Verso hadn't had anything more important to worry about besides choosing the outfit for his next concert and charming women into his bedroom then; or, more accurately, he hadn't known that he had anything more important to worry about. ]
It can be used as a way to... socialize with the opposite sex. [ Put euphemistically. It provides a pretense to get physically close to someone. Puts a respectable veneer over it. ] Or the same sex, as the case may be.
[ Verso's mom is a /r/raisedbynarcissists #boymom, but she was also apparently very woke for 1905, because she created an LGBT-friendly world. I must admit that is queen shit. ]
[ jasnah recognizes the euphemism for what it is. perhaps it isn't too different from a brace of other events and excuses fabricated by young, hot-blooded alethi over the years. it was never her cup of tea, of course — but additionally, the war of reckoning had put a damper on most revels. her uncle, dalinar, had a strict code about these sorts of things: no leisure during wartime.
— and, notably, the barrier to "socialize" was much, much lower for those of the same sex. it's not like jasnah hasn't witnessed a half-dozen of her scholar-sisters pair off in quiet corners of libraries, eschewing their work and entertaining distraction. some scholars got inappropriately attached to their students, though jasnah personally couldn't stomach the idea of getting romantically entangled with a ward. ]
I'd like a demonstration. [ and then in case it sounds too much as though she means right now, she adds: ] Someday.
[ not a question. never a question. she commands, and the loyal provide. ]
[ Whipped around, once again. For once, Verso's fairly sure his rustiness isn't to blame for his uncertainty at whether she's suggesting they dance, or... dance. Although he's reluctant to follow a train of thought that is vanishingly unlikely, his nerve endings tingle slightly, and somewhere in the back of his mind he finds himself acutely aware of the space between them. Even more acutely aware of how that imperious tone of voice might sound making other sorts of commands.
Exceedingly casually: ] Sure. A proper demonstration will require your participation, though.
[ Because it's paired. And also because he wants it to. ]
[ her voice is iron, far more severe than the topic requires — and that should perhaps be his first clue that she isn't being entirely serious in her disagreement. still iron, her voice sinks low and quiet. presumably for his ears only. ]
I'm certain we could find a willing stand-in.
[ a glance across the back of the settee, indicating with just her sightline the three scribes who had ogled him upon their arrival to the shelter. they have long since moved on to other topics, but it's clear jasnah hasn't forgotten how they reacted.
ultimately, she will agree to dance (for science!) but something in her very nature disallows her from simply saying so. ]
[ ...Yep, there's more whipping around. It's a wonder she hasn't given him whiplash. He's starting to catch onto the cadence of this push-pull, though; she says something that suggests she might harbor some amount of interest in him, however insignificant and superficial, and then immediately withdraws when he responds favorably. So, maybe he shouldn't respond favorably.
An experimental calling of her bluff, he cants his head toward the scribes. ] Should I go ask?
[ He'll dance-cuck Jasnah if she wants to be dance-cucked. ]
[ she doesn't answer immediately. instead, like earlier in the stairwell, she holds is gaze without flinching. she does blink — in a wholly natural, human way. she isn't about to pin him with a crazed stare. but it's clear that he has her attention.
— and something else, too, given the nasty twist she feels in her chest. disappointment? apprehension? something about the way he plays along upsets her, but she's enough of a scholar to want to run that feeling down. hunt it, pin it, dissect it. ]
Go on. [ she lifts her gloved hand and gestures, vaguely. ] Let me observe the not half-bad waltzer at work.
[ Hm. Not a bluff, then, or perhaps she's calling his bluff on calling her bluff. Verso is terminally competitive, so instead of backing down from the challenge, he merely takes a moment to primp, tousling his hair just right and rumpling his collar in a way that's meant to be handsomely disheveled rather than unkempt. Standing from his perch on the settee, he says, ] As her majesty wishes.
[ It's been an awfully long time since he's actually used any of his more rakish skills, but he must still have access to them, deep down. With a loose, untroubled sort of posture, he approaches the scribes and leans nonchalantly against the wall. ]
If I might trouble you mademoiselles for a moment...
[ thrilling, really, to watch him arrange his appearance before he stands. jasnah observes with a water-oil mixture of contempt and compassion. after all, architecting one's own reputation through physical appearance and fashion is one of her more persistent habits. she likes how he recognizes the social implication of a just-in-time tousled look.
he speaks, as her majesty wishes, and jasnah resists a wayward urge to pat him encouragingly (sarcastically) on the arm as he departs. instead, she does nothing. says nothing. only watches.
across the room, the three scribes turn from their conversation. the more gregarious of the three, a dimple-faced woman wearing sky blue, smiles broadly. ]
Brightlord! [ she greets him with enthusiasm, clapping her hands together — the sound is deadened, as one hand is obviously buttoned into her sleeve. ] How timely. We were hoping you could settle a bet for us — surely, you're from Thaylenah?
[ it's the hair, most likely, that makes them ask. thaylens possess white eyebrows, with seemingly no upper limit to their growth. it's a silly mistake they're making, but jasnah's expression remains impassive across the room. ]
[ Verso makes a mental note to find out what a Brightlord is later, but since it sounds flattering enough, he lets it slide in the moment. With an index finger pointed in his new friend's direction, he says, ] Ah, good guess.
[ Maybe. He's not really sure, but he's certain Jasnah will be all-too-willing to explain why it was (or wasn't) a reasonable guess. ]
But no. My place of origin [ —it hasn't been a 'home' in a long time— ] is... lesser known than that.
[ A way of saying 'yeah, you've probably never heard of it'. A glance back at Jasnah, checking if she still wants him to do this, before he turns back to the women again. ]
I was wondering if I might recruit one of you for a little cultural exchange. [ And then, just so they know what they're getting into: ] A demonstration of partner dancing.
[ the dimples on the sky-blue scribe sharpen as she gasps theatrically, bare fingertips touching the edge of her cheek. ]
A dance, Brightlord? And here we were only wagering on the length of your eyebrows.
[ her companions react differently: the second, a severe woman dressed in copper, blinks once in a flat, assessing way. the third, in a soft lilac hue, visibly startles, then tries to hide it with a shy smile.
copper: ] Cultural exchange? Here? We’re practically drowning in culture already.
[ lilac: ] Don’t be rude—
[ copper: ] I’m not. Just cautious. Partner dancing is...
[ sky-blue elbows copper without shame, interrupting her, then steps forward as though announcing her candidacy to a council.
sky-blue: ] Well, if you’re looking for someone who won’t embarrass you, I danced at my cousin’s wedding last month. Half the warcamps saw it.
[ a beat. she glances, openly, boldly, past verso’s shoulder toward jasnah — not asking permission but clocking the monarch’s reaction like a practiced courtier. ]
But if this is meant to be instructive... perhaps you should tell us what sort of dance we’re talking about. Slow? Fast? Something respectable? Or...?
[ lilac squeaks. copper snorts. sky-blue's words demonstrate that not all alethi are quite as uptight as their queen. ]
Verso, vain as he is, touches his eyebrows self-consciously at the comment. (Are they suggesting they're bushy? He did spend a long time in the wilderness.) But then the women move on, so he does too, albeit not without adding 'shave beard, and also maybe eyebrows???' to his mental agenda.
He glances back at Jasnah's reaction, too, eyes following Mademoiselle Sky-Blue's. Honestly, he hasn't the slightest idea if Jasnah has just set him up to deeply offend the innocent women they're holed up with. She had seemed rather scandalized by the prospect of partner dancing, after all—but the more gregarious of the bunch seems the type to step out of her comfort zone, perhaps less tightly wound than Jasnah.
"Don't I seem respectable?" Mm. Don't answer that. "It's a party dance."
He takes a few steps back toward the center of the room, hand outstretched in invitation as he offers easy flattery: "It should be simple enough for someone who's danced in front of half the warcamps, I think."
Across the room, Jasnah suppresses an eyeroll. Now, don’t get it twisted — she has long argued that there are now roles, behaviours, or personalities that adhere more feminine than others. If the scribe in sky blue wants to flirt and fuss, Jasnah would defend that woman’s right to do so. Doesn’t mean she finds it appealing. Or practical. At least, not on this day, in this place, with this man.
(Or maybe she’s simply feeling a little territorial.)
The queen helps herself to a cup of wine — orange again — and settles back onto the settee to watch this ceremony, this mock courtship, this cultural exchange that she understands is for her benefit first and foremost. Her education.
Sky-Blue’s smile widens, showing teeth, and she places her bare right hand in Verso’s. Palm to palm. Casual, confident, clearly a woman who feels easy ownership over her presence and her affection. Unlike Jasnah, she does not guard it jealously like a finite resource.
“—What manner of music should I imagine, good sir?”
Ah, not an offense, then. Judging by Jasnah's behaviors, one might think something as simple as the touch of a hand would be impossibly inappropriate, but his understanding of the culture shifts a bit to the left now. Maybe it's just Alethkar's queen that's so icily withholding.
"I'll take care of the music," he says, shooting his partner a grin back. It's been a long time since he's felt the warmth of another person's fingers against his, and he has to admit that the sensation is nice, even when coming from a near-stranger. "Just put your hands here—"
Patiently, he walks her through the stance—left arm draped across his right arm, right hand clasped in his left—and the basic steps, before humming Blue Danube again as he steps forward, to the side, back. He was right: although it's been ages since he's had cause to do this, the steps come back easily once he starts, like riding a bicycle.
It's sort of fun, actually. Makes him feel a bit like he used to feel, back when things were simple and easy and his greatest concern was whether he'd get to dance with the prettiest girl at the party. It's not strictly accurate to the waltz, but he lifts his arm and twirls Sky-Blue around before pulling her back in, showing off.
From her vantage point, Jasnah can't identify anything truly scandalous about the dance. The pair are physically close, yes, but from across the room she can see the space between their bodies. The tense cant of the arm suggests restraint — not indulgence. She understands (in observing) why he called this style classic. And, as her attention sweeps briefly to the dancers' feet, she can imagine herself managing the steps. It looks easier than some of the more basic sword stances, and she'd only just recently started learning those.
Meanwhile, the scribe wearing sky blue seems to light up in Verso's arms. His attention for her us reflected back in a dazzling grin and an energetic, cooperative nature. She may have danced before, but this dance is still new to her and her steps are clumsy.
Sky-Blue (or whatever her name actually is, Jasnah thinks she's related to the Sebarial house) doesn't seem to mind her own clumsiness. When she misses a step, she laughs and lets her momentum crash against Verso. Not in an over provocation — simply joyful and heedless. A far, far cry from the queen who deliberates every word.
Her friends cheer her on. And as cantankerous as Jasnah can be, she at least appreciates what it means to witness this sliver of peace in otherwise dreary times.
Verso laughs softly at the misstep and ensuing crash, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her. If it's been a long time since he had someone else's hand in his, it's been even longer since he's experienced carelessness like this, even as a mere witness. The only carefree distractions he's engaged in any time recently have been quick trysts in the woods with people who are scared of their impending death and want to feel something besides fear and sadness, clothing still half-on and the return to camp made hastily after.
"Merci, mademoiselle," he says, releasing her and giving her a little bow. It's obvious that he thrives under positive attention, like a flower that turns toward the warmth of the sun. "You've done very well for a beginner."
A step back, and— "Anyone else want to try?" He's not talking to Jasnah, but he's not not talking to her, either.
— Honestly? Jasnah is tempted. A kind of hunger claws under her ribs, making her crave the things she's always valued over physicality: bonding, relating, engaging. For a moment, watching the other woman's smile and hearing Verso's laughter, she thought maybe she understood the value in the gesture. The risk-reward of the dance. Like, they both left their performance feeling a little fuller.
(Another more stubborn wingbeat in her chest forces her to ask: can't intellectual conversation provide the same?)
Here's the thing. As real as her temptation is, Jasnah can't simply raise her hand and cut in. Not with these three scribes watching. Quite apart from any social hesitation, there are political implications. If she dances with him in front of these three women, they'll mistake him for a suitor. If the highprinces get whiff of a possible suitor (however incorrectly) then it becomes a whole new headache.
So, instead! She clears her throat and cuts her voice across the room: "That's quite enough for the time being, Dessendre. Don't you think you've distracted the poor girls long enough?"
...Even the one in sky blue can't quite bring herself to correct the queen, even if her eyes tell a different story.
Yes, Jasnah thinks. She'll have to wait her turn when there are fewer witnesses.
If he'd been a flower blooming under the scribe's warm attention, he wilts a little at the cold front from Jasnah's side of the room.
He clears his throat and offers the sky-blue-clad scribe a congenial nod before stepping away, wondering if maybe they'll have the opportunity to meet again. She'd been fun. When he returns to the settee, it's at the edge of the seat, boots planted on the ground instead of kicked up on the stool.
Jasnah isn't a liar. Not by the strictest definitions, at any rate. Although she may lie by omission or deflection, she prefers to say things that are true. Truth, you see, matters to her. If she had hated his demonstration, she would have told him so. But because she didn't hate it, and because he's asking her for her verdict directly, she needs a moment to navigate her way through all the different branching dialogue trees available.
"Hmm," she hums. She sets her half-drank second cup aside. She folds her hands in her lap, bare over gloved. And she waits another beat for the scribes to lose themselves in a different topic, paying less and less attention to the two on the settee.
"I think," Jasnah tips her chin, "that it's a pity you can't play piano and dance at the same time."
If he takes his time sorting through her verbs and nouns, he might come to the following conclusion: she intends to try a dance — at some point, likely in the privacy of his quarters — and she can imagine the appeal of it alongside good music — oh, and she thinks his music is good. In not quite the same words, she does indeed tell him he is good.
Unfortunately, Verso has so little self-respect that this not-quite-a-compliment pleases him, perhaps more than it should. Maybe he should consider whether it's strictly healthy to have someone's approval dangled in front of him, constantly just out of reach, but he doesn't. Instead, he smiles at the brief ray of sun in the blizzard that is Jasnah Kholin.
"You never know," he teases. "I am a man of many talents. I might surprise you."
If Jasnah understood just how hot-and-cold her behaviour has been perceived, she might actually possess enough shame to feel contrition. But, in many respects, she lacks compassion for those whose self-worth lives mostly in others' reflection.
And so: "I'll not hold my breath."
She stretches her neck from one side to the next, clearly getting antsy so long locked in the shelter. Restlessness opens the door to paranoia, and paranoia isn't something she needs in additional doses.
A mirror of Jasnah, Verso taps his fingers on the seat of the settee, restless himself. The waltz certainly helped burn off some excess energy, but he's never been good at staying put for too long. Will you stop that incessant fidgeting, Verso? Clea would say. Some of us are trying to focus.
Very gently, he nudges his shoulder against hers, playful and teasing. "Sounds even better on the piano."
So, you know, there's something to look forward to there.
She gives him a look — cool, deliberate, with a thread of amusement under the surface. Rather than warmth, she suffuses with something nearer to benediction. Permission.
"Alright. Expect me this evening."
That's it. No flourish. No softness. A simple fact dropped between them like an ink blot on a ledger: notable, but only if he cares to interpret it.
She may be about to say something else, certainly her mouth opens to that effect. But the creak of the heavy shelter door interrupts her. A nervous winehouse attendant enters, fidgeting with the half-finished platters of food and drink. "Your Majesty? The storm's passed. They've signaled the all-clear." Jasnah's jaw snaps shut at that and she stands — setting the book aside for someone else to tidy. Once again composed in that razor-edged way she uses to mask restlessness — shoulders precise, chin tilted, fingers flexing once behind her back in a languid stretch.
“Excellent,” she says, already halfway to the door.
———
Across the plateaus, through the Oathgate again, step by step she sinks back into her position. As they part ways on Urithiru's platform, Jasnah is already recategorizing Verso: from an engaging diversion, to a pending appointment, to something she will get to after she stabilizes half a dozen spiraling responsibilities. It isn't dismissal. It's...triage.
That evening, and the two days that follow, her schedule devours her whole. Not dramatically. Not unwillingly. Simply...the natural gravity of rulership asserting itself. Over those days, she is detoured by three urgent petitions awaiting her revision and signature, a missive from Dalinar requesting her approval on troop allocations, a diplomatic tangle between Herdazian and Veden merchants. And, most irritatingly, a report of Alethi officers circumventing an edict against personal duels she passed months ago.
By the third day, she has already forgotten she made a promise — not because she doesn’t value him, but because the world is louder, more demanding, and accustomed to having her attention. She isn't avoiding Verso. After all, avoidance requires conscious thought. This is simply proximity blindness. If he doesn't insert himself into her path, she does not remember to reach out.
When she finally pauses long enough to breathe, she finds Adolin in the training courtyard, sweaty, earnest, radiating that particular Adolin-style of sunshine that has always irritated and comforted her in equal measure. He says something ridiculous — Adolin always does. Something about horses having political opinions, or how the mapmakers deliberately "make the borders pointier" every year.
And she laughs. Not politely. Not strategically. A real one: startled, bright, involuntary. Adolin beams. Jasnah, for once, lets herself be carried by the ease of it — just for a breath. Her guards and walls come crashing down for family.
Unluckily for Verso, that's about the precise moment he passes by the wide viewing bays that divide the Breakaway Market from the training grounds. And when Jasna notes him in the middle distance, her smile dims. Not with annoyance — simply refocusing. She straightens, her attention sliding back to duty like water finding its level. She turns away, and begins talking with Adolin in earnest about the reason she sought him out in the first place: how can she make the law prohibiting duels stick. She never considers how her bare dismissal might land on Verso.
But on the morning of the fourth day, an errand-boy finds him with a message: "Her Majesty requests your presence for travel to Kharbranth. Pack lightly."
It's not phrased as an invitation.
———
They take the Oathgate later that day. This time their transfer is powered by a redhead who comes off as particularly jumpy around Jasnah. Eager to please, but with a current of resentment occasionally poking through. After the transfer, on their ascent through Kharbranth, Jasnah spends most of her attention on that same woman — although she does eventually introduce her to Verso as Shallan Davar, a previous ward and a Knight Radiant in her own right. Shallan has her own business in Kharbranth and won't be spending more than a a couple of hours in the city before returning to Urithiru. However, Jasnah intends to stay a few day.
And staying a few days means becoming honoured guests of King Taravangian. Her Cobalt Guardsmen are to be quartered in the city barracks, but Jasnah and Verso...?
Jasnah's assigned chamber is a spacious suite with seashell-colored walls, a balcony overlooking the bay, carved columns, silk hangings, open windows that invite a soft breeze carrying the scent of salt and incense.
Verso, meanwhile, is assigned the chamber directly across the hall.
Not adjacent, but opposing doors. Facing each other. Every time either of them enters or leaves, the other will hear it. He's treated as a personal retainer — polite nods, deferential glances, servants offering him the same courtesy they would extend to a noble tied to royal business.
Jasnah's reaction when they first are directed to their rooms is a simple raised brow, as if to say, of course your room is there. Why wouldn't it be?"
———
Perhaps predictably, Jasnah doesn't intend to spend much time in her suite. Rather, after a moment taken to freshen up and change, she heads immediately to the Palanaeum. When she leads Verso down the spiraling stone steps into the library, her entire demeanor shifts. Something brightens. Sharpens.
Row upon row of softly lit spheres. Shelves stretching higher than any mortal should reach. A cathedral of knowledge humming beneath the stone. At the final landing, she pauses. Turns her head slightly toward him, just enough for her voice to curl back like a beckoning finger.
"Take care, it's easy to lose yourself down here."
The days that stretch after their visit to the winehouse are admittedly lonesome, as many of his days have been since the Fracture. Verso fills the days as best he can; he passes through the marketplace, noting the merchandise on sale, asking questions about items he doesn't recognize. He stumbles upon a theater, wonders if he ever might see music played there. He finds a garden balcony that reminds him of the one in Lumière overlooking the Monolith, where he used to sit and eat breakfast bought from his favorite patisserie.
The days are filled with enough novelty that for the first time in a long time he's distracted from the ongoing rumination that he calls his thoughts. The evenings, though, back in his room, allow his mind to wander. He thinks mostly of the Canvas, wondering if it's still there or if Renoir has burned it down in an effort to keep Maman from ever re-entering. He thinks of Esquie and Monoco, companions made just for him so that he'd never have to be truly alone even if he felt that way, missing them terribly. He thinks of Alicia, of how he'll never see his little sister's big blue eyes peering up at him ever again.
When the rumination gets old, his mind wanders to Jasnah instead. The way it had felt when she'd pinned his gaze, the brief warmth of their fingers brushing. He tries not to wonder why she hasn't so much as reached out in days. She's busy, of course, and simply doesn't have the time to babysit him. At least, that's what he tells himself until he catches sight of her in the courtyard, a man at her side who's the sort of light, dazzling handsome that Verso has always been too gloomy to pull off. She's laughing, really laughing in a way that he's certainly not seen before—and then her gaze catches on him, and it stops. Verso hurries off after that, the distant, tinkling sound of her laughter replaying in his mind.
It makes sense. Explains the push and pull, the jerking around. While he'd never expected anything more than a casual flirtation, she'd rebuffed even that, and now he knows why. It's fine—he doesn't care that she has a boyfriend. Really. It's for unrelated reasons that he can't stop thinking about the annoyingly perfect way that the light glinted off that man's hair, or the easy affection with which he'd regarded Jasnah. Pure curiosity and nothing more.
By the time their visit to Kharbranth rolls around, he's resigned himself to this outing being more business than pleasure. Another field trip, as he'd said; academic in nature. Still, he's grateful for the opportunity, and grateful to have a friend as company. If he's a little more distant, it's only out of respect for Jasnah's comfort. It would really be very ungentlemanly to continue to try to charm her.
He yet again trails behind her, a few steps above. The library excites him, too, although it's less due to the knowledge on its shelves and more because the art that must be hidden away somewhere. Some dusty shelf with naval adventures and bawdy romances. Maybe there's even some books on music around here. He wouldn't mind learning how to play one of this world's instruments.
"Do you speak from experience?" he asks as he takes the last few steps down to stand beside her. His expression is amused. Have you gotten lost down here, Jasnah?
Translation: yes, absolutely. Some of her earliest visits to Kharbranth's library involved hours of wandering the stacks, combing the card catalogue, and burdening the ardentia who man the library with lists and lists of requests that they would deliver to whatever alcove she's rented for her stay. If she got lost on one of those early days, then it might have been on purpose. She'd been younger, her father's kingdom established. War, for a brief time, was over. Even if most of her leisure time was spent in the library even then, it had felt...less serious, in those years. She could research whatever caught her eye.
But then the Parshendi hired her father's assassin, and the War of Reckoning put new pressures on her people.
It used to be that parshmen — Parshendi, but stuck in a cognitive form that humans were able to control — operated the lifts. Since the advent of the Everstorm (long story!) those slaves have been loosed, and Jasnah's own legislation has tried to dismantle slavery further. Now, these lifts are powered by stormlight fabrials — like so much else of daily Rosharan life.
"It's a — nice place to get lost in." She eventually adds. Oh, Jasnah is in good spirits today. The smell of the library and the prospect of her research invigorates her. She's in far, far too good a mood to realize the two-to-three sociable steps that Verso has withdrawn by.
"But I'll take an alcove," she points at one of the many curtain-covered sitting areas that line the tiered mezzanines. "So there's always a place of safety to fall back to if your exploration becomes too wayward."
Verso notes Jasnah's unusually good mood, watching with an amused tilt to his lips. He tries not to feel any type of way about it. Besides, attachments have historically been a bad idea. He hates that he can hear Renoir's voice in his head, still, all these decades later. What you need, son, is to focus on your family instead of sniffing after some woman. He'd been right, as loath as Verso is to admit it. Everything would have been better if he'd just kept his distance.
"I'm a rather talented wayfinder, as it turns out," he says, a skill he conveniently left out when she'd asked previously. Don't question where he got his survival skills! Bragging: "But feel free to give me a shout if you get lost."
Instead of following behind her like a pathetic puppy, he clasps his hands behind his back and says, "I'll be in the bawdy romance section."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It can be intimate, under the right circumstances.
[ He'd be lying if he'd said he'd never used dancing as an excuse to push his luck with someone that he shouldn't. (Hey, it's almost like that's a pattern.) Verso hadn't had anything more important to worry about besides choosing the outfit for his next concert and charming women into his bedroom then; or, more accurately, he hadn't known that he had anything more important to worry about. ]
It can be used as a way to... socialize with the opposite sex. [ Put euphemistically. It provides a pretense to get physically close to someone. Puts a respectable veneer over it. ] Or the same sex, as the case may be.
[ Verso's mom is a /r/raisedbynarcissists #boymom, but she was also apparently very woke for 1905, because she created an LGBT-friendly world. I must admit that is queen shit. ]
no subject
— and, notably, the barrier to "socialize" was much, much lower for those of the same sex. it's not like jasnah hasn't witnessed a half-dozen of her scholar-sisters pair off in quiet corners of libraries, eschewing their work and entertaining distraction. some scholars got inappropriately attached to their students, though jasnah personally couldn't stomach the idea of getting romantically entangled with a ward. ]
I'd like a demonstration. [ and then in case it sounds too much as though she means right now, she adds: ] Someday.
[ not a question. never a question. she commands, and the loyal provide. ]
no subject
Exceedingly casually: ] Sure. A proper demonstration will require your participation, though.
[ Because it's paired. And also because he wants it to. ]
no subject
[ her voice is iron, far more severe than the topic requires — and that should perhaps be his first clue that she isn't being entirely serious in her disagreement. still iron, her voice sinks low and quiet. presumably for his ears only. ]
I'm certain we could find a willing stand-in.
[ a glance across the back of the settee, indicating with just her sightline the three scribes who had ogled him upon their arrival to the shelter. they have long since moved on to other topics, but it's clear jasnah hasn't forgotten how they reacted.
ultimately, she will agree to dance (for science!) but something in her very nature disallows her from simply saying so. ]
no subject
An experimental calling of her bluff, he cants his head toward the scribes. ] Should I go ask?
[ He'll dance-cuck Jasnah if she wants to be dance-cucked. ]
no subject
— and something else, too, given the nasty twist she feels in her chest. disappointment? apprehension? something about the way he plays along upsets her, but she's enough of a scholar to want to run that feeling down. hunt it, pin it, dissect it. ]
Go on. [ she lifts her gloved hand and gestures, vaguely. ] Let me observe the not half-bad waltzer at work.
no subject
[ It's been an awfully long time since he's actually used any of his more rakish skills, but he must still have access to them, deep down. With a loose, untroubled sort of posture, he approaches the scribes and leans nonchalantly against the wall. ]
If I might trouble you mademoiselles for a moment...
no subject
he speaks, as her majesty wishes, and jasnah resists a wayward urge to pat him encouragingly (sarcastically) on the arm as he departs. instead, she does nothing. says nothing. only watches.
across the room, the three scribes turn from their conversation. the more gregarious of the three, a dimple-faced woman wearing sky blue, smiles broadly. ]
Brightlord! [ she greets him with enthusiasm, clapping her hands together — the sound is deadened, as one hand is obviously buttoned into her sleeve. ] How timely. We were hoping you could settle a bet for us — surely, you're from Thaylenah?
[ it's the hair, most likely, that makes them ask. thaylens possess white eyebrows, with seemingly no upper limit to their growth. it's a silly mistake they're making, but jasnah's expression remains impassive across the room. ]
no subject
[ Maybe. He's not really sure, but he's certain Jasnah will be all-too-willing to explain why it was (or wasn't) a reasonable guess. ]
But no. My place of origin [ —it hasn't been a 'home' in a long time— ] is... lesser known than that.
[ A way of saying 'yeah, you've probably never heard of it'. A glance back at Jasnah, checking if she still wants him to do this, before he turns back to the women again. ]
I was wondering if I might recruit one of you for a little cultural exchange. [ And then, just so they know what they're getting into: ] A demonstration of partner dancing.
no subject
A dance, Brightlord? And here we were only wagering on the length of your eyebrows.
[ her companions react differently: the second, a severe woman dressed in copper, blinks once in a flat, assessing way. the third, in a soft lilac hue, visibly startles, then tries to hide it with a shy smile.
copper: ] Cultural exchange? Here? We’re practically drowning in culture already.
[ lilac: ] Don’t be rude—
[ copper: ] I’m not. Just cautious. Partner dancing is...
[ sky-blue elbows copper without shame, interrupting her, then steps forward as though announcing her candidacy to a council.
sky-blue: ] Well, if you’re looking for someone who won’t embarrass you, I danced at my cousin’s wedding last month. Half the warcamps saw it.
[ a beat. she glances, openly, boldly, past verso’s shoulder toward jasnah — not asking permission but clocking the monarch’s reaction like a practiced courtier. ]
But if this is meant to be instructive... perhaps you should tell us what sort of dance we’re talking about. Slow? Fast? Something respectable? Or...?
[ lilac squeaks. copper snorts. sky-blue's words demonstrate that not all alethi are quite as uptight as their queen. ]
aggressively backflips into prose
He glances back at Jasnah's reaction, too, eyes following Mademoiselle Sky-Blue's. Honestly, he hasn't the slightest idea if Jasnah has just set him up to deeply offend the innocent women they're holed up with. She had seemed rather scandalized by the prospect of partner dancing, after all—but the more gregarious of the bunch seems the type to step out of her comfort zone, perhaps less tightly wound than Jasnah.
"Don't I seem respectable?" Mm. Don't answer that. "It's a party dance."
He takes a few steps back toward the center of the room, hand outstretched in invitation as he offers easy flattery: "It should be simple enough for someone who's danced in front of half the warcamps, I think."
no subject
(Or maybe she’s simply feeling a little territorial.)
The queen helps herself to a cup of wine — orange again — and settles back onto the settee to watch this ceremony, this mock courtship, this cultural exchange that she understands is for her benefit first and foremost. Her education.
Sky-Blue’s smile widens, showing teeth, and she places her bare right hand in Verso’s. Palm to palm. Casual, confident, clearly a woman who feels easy ownership over her presence and her affection. Unlike Jasnah, she does not guard it jealously like a finite resource.
“—What manner of music should I imagine, good sir?”
no subject
"I'll take care of the music," he says, shooting his partner a grin back. It's been a long time since he's felt the warmth of another person's fingers against his, and he has to admit that the sensation is nice, even when coming from a near-stranger. "Just put your hands here—"
Patiently, he walks her through the stance—left arm draped across his right arm, right hand clasped in his left—and the basic steps, before humming Blue Danube again as he steps forward, to the side, back. He was right: although it's been ages since he's had cause to do this, the steps come back easily once he starts, like riding a bicycle.
It's sort of fun, actually. Makes him feel a bit like he used to feel, back when things were simple and easy and his greatest concern was whether he'd get to dance with the prettiest girl at the party. It's not strictly accurate to the waltz, but he lifts his arm and twirls Sky-Blue around before pulling her back in, showing off.
no subject
Meanwhile, the scribe wearing sky blue seems to light up in Verso's arms. His attention for her us reflected back in a dazzling grin and an energetic, cooperative nature. She may have danced before, but this dance is still new to her and her steps are clumsy.
Sky-Blue (or whatever her name actually is, Jasnah thinks she's related to the Sebarial house) doesn't seem to mind her own clumsiness. When she misses a step, she laughs and lets her momentum crash against Verso. Not in an over provocation — simply joyful and heedless. A far, far cry from the queen who deliberates every word.
Her friends cheer her on. And as cantankerous as Jasnah can be, she at least appreciates what it means to witness this sliver of peace in otherwise dreary times.
no subject
"Merci, mademoiselle," he says, releasing her and giving her a little bow. It's obvious that he thrives under positive attention, like a flower that turns toward the warmth of the sun. "You've done very well for a beginner."
A step back, and— "Anyone else want to try?" He's not talking to Jasnah, but he's not not talking to her, either.
no subject
(Another more stubborn wingbeat in her chest forces her to ask: can't intellectual conversation provide the same?)
Here's the thing. As real as her temptation is, Jasnah can't simply raise her hand and cut in. Not with these three scribes watching. Quite apart from any social hesitation, there are political implications. If she dances with him in front of these three women, they'll mistake him for a suitor. If the highprinces get whiff of a possible suitor (however incorrectly) then it becomes a whole new headache.
So, instead! She clears her throat and cuts her voice across the room: "That's quite enough for the time being, Dessendre. Don't you think you've distracted the poor girls long enough?"
...Even the one in sky blue can't quite bring herself to correct the queen, even if her eyes tell a different story.
Yes, Jasnah thinks. She'll have to wait her turn when there are fewer witnesses.
no subject
He clears his throat and offers the sky-blue-clad scribe a congenial nod before stepping away, wondering if maybe they'll have the opportunity to meet again. She'd been fun. When he returns to the settee, it's at the edge of the seat, boots planted on the ground instead of kicked up on the stool.
"So," he says after a moment, "what did Her Majesty think of the demonstration?"
no subject
"Hmm," she hums. She sets her half-drank second cup aside. She folds her hands in her lap, bare over gloved. And she waits another beat for the scribes to lose themselves in a different topic, paying less and less attention to the two on the settee.
"I think," Jasnah tips her chin, "that it's a pity you can't play piano and dance at the same time."
If he takes his time sorting through her verbs and nouns, he might come to the following conclusion: she intends to try a dance — at some point, likely in the privacy of his quarters — and she can imagine the appeal of it alongside good music — oh, and she thinks his music is good. In not quite the same words, she does indeed tell him he is good.
no subject
"You never know," he teases. "I am a man of many talents. I might surprise you."
no subject
And so: "I'll not hold my breath."
She stretches her neck from one side to the next, clearly getting antsy so long locked in the shelter. Restlessness opens the door to paranoia, and paranoia isn't something she needs in additional doses.
"...The tune was quite lovely."
She could hear him humming from across the room.
no subject
Very gently, he nudges his shoulder against hers, playful and teasing. "Sounds even better on the piano."
So, you know, there's something to look forward to there.
no subject
"Alright. Expect me this evening."
That's it. No flourish. No softness. A simple fact dropped between them like an ink blot on a ledger: notable, but only if he cares to interpret it.
She may be about to say something else, certainly her mouth opens to that effect. But the creak of the heavy shelter door interrupts her. A nervous winehouse attendant enters, fidgeting with the half-finished platters of food and drink. "Your Majesty? The storm's passed. They've signaled the all-clear." Jasnah's jaw snaps shut at that and she stands — setting the book aside for someone else to tidy. Once again composed in that razor-edged way she uses to mask restlessness — shoulders precise, chin tilted, fingers flexing once behind her back in a languid stretch.
“Excellent,” she says, already halfway to the door.
———
Across the plateaus, through the Oathgate again, step by step she sinks back into her position. As they part ways on Urithiru's platform, Jasnah is already recategorizing Verso: from an engaging diversion, to a pending appointment, to something she will get to after she stabilizes half a dozen spiraling responsibilities. It isn't dismissal. It's...triage.
That evening, and the two days that follow, her schedule devours her whole. Not dramatically. Not unwillingly. Simply...the natural gravity of rulership asserting itself. Over those days, she is detoured by three urgent petitions awaiting her revision and signature, a missive from Dalinar requesting her approval on troop allocations, a diplomatic tangle between Herdazian and Veden merchants. And, most irritatingly, a report of Alethi officers circumventing an edict against personal duels she passed months ago.
By the third day, she has already forgotten she made a promise — not because she doesn’t value him, but because the world is louder, more demanding, and accustomed to having her attention. She isn't avoiding Verso. After all, avoidance requires conscious thought. This is simply proximity blindness. If he doesn't insert himself into her path, she does not remember to reach out.
When she finally pauses long enough to breathe, she finds Adolin in the training courtyard, sweaty, earnest, radiating that particular Adolin-style of sunshine that has always irritated and comforted her in equal measure. He says something ridiculous — Adolin always does. Something about horses having political opinions, or how the mapmakers deliberately "make the borders pointier" every year.
And she laughs. Not politely. Not strategically. A real one: startled, bright, involuntary. Adolin beams. Jasnah, for once, lets herself be carried by the ease of it — just for a breath. Her guards and walls come crashing down for family.
Unluckily for Verso, that's about the precise moment he passes by the wide viewing bays that divide the Breakaway Market from the training grounds. And when Jasna notes him in the middle distance, her smile dims. Not with annoyance — simply refocusing. She straightens, her attention sliding back to duty like water finding its level. She turns away, and begins talking with Adolin in earnest about the reason she sought him out in the first place: how can she make the law prohibiting duels stick. She never considers how her bare dismissal might land on Verso.
But on the morning of the fourth day, an errand-boy finds him with a message: "Her Majesty requests your presence for travel to Kharbranth. Pack lightly."
It's not phrased as an invitation.
———
They take the Oathgate later that day. This time their transfer is powered by a redhead who comes off as particularly jumpy around Jasnah. Eager to please, but with a current of resentment occasionally poking through. After the transfer, on their ascent through Kharbranth, Jasnah spends most of her attention on that same woman — although she does eventually introduce her to Verso as Shallan Davar, a previous ward and a Knight Radiant in her own right. Shallan has her own business in Kharbranth and won't be spending more than a a couple of hours in the city before returning to Urithiru. However, Jasnah intends to stay a few day.
And staying a few days means becoming honoured guests of King Taravangian. Her Cobalt Guardsmen are to be quartered in the city barracks, but Jasnah and Verso...?
Jasnah's assigned chamber is a spacious suite with seashell-colored walls, a balcony overlooking the bay, carved columns, silk hangings, open windows that invite a soft breeze carrying the scent of salt and incense.
Verso, meanwhile, is assigned the chamber directly across the hall.
Not adjacent, but opposing doors. Facing each other. Every time either of them enters or leaves, the other will hear it. He's treated as a personal retainer — polite nods, deferential glances, servants offering him the same courtesy they would extend to a noble tied to royal business.
Jasnah's reaction when they first are directed to their rooms is a simple raised brow, as if to say, of course your room is there. Why wouldn't it be?"
———
Perhaps predictably, Jasnah doesn't intend to spend much time in her suite. Rather, after a moment taken to freshen up and change, she heads immediately to the Palanaeum. When she leads Verso down the spiraling stone steps into the library, her entire demeanor shifts. Something brightens. Sharpens.
Row upon row of softly lit spheres. Shelves stretching higher than any mortal should reach. A cathedral of knowledge humming beneath the stone. At the final landing, she pauses. Turns her head slightly toward him, just enough for her voice to curl back like a beckoning finger.
"Take care, it's easy to lose yourself down here."
no subject
The days are filled with enough novelty that for the first time in a long time he's distracted from the ongoing rumination that he calls his thoughts. The evenings, though, back in his room, allow his mind to wander. He thinks mostly of the Canvas, wondering if it's still there or if Renoir has burned it down in an effort to keep Maman from ever re-entering. He thinks of Esquie and Monoco, companions made just for him so that he'd never have to be truly alone even if he felt that way, missing them terribly. He thinks of Alicia, of how he'll never see his little sister's big blue eyes peering up at him ever again.
When the rumination gets old, his mind wanders to Jasnah instead. The way it had felt when she'd pinned his gaze, the brief warmth of their fingers brushing. He tries not to wonder why she hasn't so much as reached out in days. She's busy, of course, and simply doesn't have the time to babysit him. At least, that's what he tells himself until he catches sight of her in the courtyard, a man at her side who's the sort of light, dazzling handsome that Verso has always been too gloomy to pull off. She's laughing, really laughing in a way that he's certainly not seen before—and then her gaze catches on him, and it stops. Verso hurries off after that, the distant, tinkling sound of her laughter replaying in his mind.
It makes sense. Explains the push and pull, the jerking around. While he'd never expected anything more than a casual flirtation, she'd rebuffed even that, and now he knows why. It's fine—he doesn't care that she has a boyfriend. Really. It's for unrelated reasons that he can't stop thinking about the annoyingly perfect way that the light glinted off that man's hair, or the easy affection with which he'd regarded Jasnah. Pure curiosity and nothing more.
By the time their visit to Kharbranth rolls around, he's resigned himself to this outing being more business than pleasure. Another field trip, as he'd said; academic in nature. Still, he's grateful for the opportunity, and grateful to have a friend as company. If he's a little more distant, it's only out of respect for Jasnah's comfort. It would really be very ungentlemanly to continue to try to charm her.
He yet again trails behind her, a few steps above. The library excites him, too, although it's less due to the knowledge on its shelves and more because the art that must be hidden away somewhere. Some dusty shelf with naval adventures and bawdy romances. Maybe there's even some books on music around here. He wouldn't mind learning how to play one of this world's instruments.
"Do you speak from experience?" he asks as he takes the last few steps down to stand beside her. His expression is amused. Have you gotten lost down here, Jasnah?
no subject
Translation: yes, absolutely. Some of her earliest visits to Kharbranth's library involved hours of wandering the stacks, combing the card catalogue, and burdening the ardentia who man the library with lists and lists of requests that they would deliver to whatever alcove she's rented for her stay. If she got lost on one of those early days, then it might have been on purpose. She'd been younger, her father's kingdom established. War, for a brief time, was over. Even if most of her leisure time was spent in the library even then, it had felt...less serious, in those years. She could research whatever caught her eye.
But then the Parshendi hired her father's assassin, and the War of Reckoning put new pressures on her people.
It used to be that parshmen — Parshendi, but stuck in a cognitive form that humans were able to control — operated the lifts. Since the advent of the Everstorm (long story!) those slaves have been loosed, and Jasnah's own legislation has tried to dismantle slavery further. Now, these lifts are powered by stormlight fabrials — like so much else of daily Rosharan life.
"It's a — nice place to get lost in." She eventually adds. Oh, Jasnah is in good spirits today. The smell of the library and the prospect of her research invigorates her. She's in far, far too good a mood to realize the two-to-three sociable steps that Verso has withdrawn by.
"But I'll take an alcove," she points at one of the many curtain-covered sitting areas that line the tiered mezzanines. "So there's always a place of safety to fall back to if your exploration becomes too wayward."
no subject
"I'm a rather talented wayfinder, as it turns out," he says, a skill he conveniently left out when she'd asked previously. Don't question where he got his survival skills! Bragging: "But feel free to give me a shout if you get lost."
Instead of following behind her like a pathetic puppy, he clasps his hands behind his back and says, "I'll be in the bawdy romance section."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
tosses u a midnight before bed tag.......
delightful.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...