recreatable | open post.

"No," he answers, only definitive instead of prevaricatory when ruminating on the essence of good art. If the absence of love were to make art poor quality, then his poetry would be very shoddy indeed. It's not love's absence that makes his poetry questionable; it's that he rhymes 'torment' with 'lament'.

Verso leans forward a little more, visibly more attuned to this topic in conversation than he's ever been before. "The absence of something is still about that something. You can't miss something without first understanding what it is you're missing." That is to say— art about being loveless still has love at the soul of it.

"It's like when a composition has an unresolved cadence. You feel the unplayed chord's presence all the more for the lack of it."

...It is a thing of beauty to watch a person — any person — engage earnestly and enthusiastically on a topic they love. In that regard, she imagines Verso might actually be correct: love is the soul of great art, even when that art is rhetorical argument.

But that doesn't mean she can't flip any conversation on its head and turn it into an oral exam. Jasnah's composure relaxes to the point of crossing one leg over the other, body leaning against the desk. She points a finger down at the tabletop, tapping it three times.

"Consider the statement: all great art is hated. The only way to create something that nobody hates is to ensure that it can't be loved either. Do you agree?"

—Verso laughs. How fucking familiar this all feels. Like being quizzed over Steak au Poivre at the dinner table, his mother delighting at his curated answers while his father looked on with a raised brow. Clea simmering with annoyance at his eagerness to please, Alicia too young to take part, still just a baby.

"I wasn't aware there was going to be a test," he quips, not unkindly.

It does take him a moment to answer, although it's only because he's turning her question over in his mind, genuinely considering it. God, it's been an eon since he's had a real intellectual conversation. Monoco is as scholarly as a Gestral will ever be, but he's still a Gestral at heart, and their conversations had ended in playful roughhousing more often than not. And Esquie— well, Esquie was always more interested in hosting mock-weddings for his pet rocks.

"Your question presupposes that love and hatred are opposites," he finally says, "but they're... complementary. You can feel both in tandem." He thinks of Renoir. Feels burning antipathy, feels the childlike urge to run to his Papa and be comforted by a paternal hand on the shoulder.

The crooked angle of her smile suggests something along the lines of: silly Verso, there was always going to be a test. It's not hard to see Jasnah's pedagogical philosophy unfold like an anvil — and perhaps the next time he sees Shallan Davar, the redhead who joined them at the crossing, Verso will feel a pang of sympathy for the young woman who had apparently sought Jasnah out as a teacher.

(Mind you, the girl's original motive was to steal from Jasnah — but we all have our flaws.)

To her credit, she also takes the time to consider their conversation with care and respect. She doesn't agree. Because, yes, she does presuppose them as opposites. Her boundaries are perhaps more clearly drawn between these concepts — provided she doesn't examine too closely some of her foundational relationships. Willfully, she avoids that bramble path.

Instead: "Do you believe it's possible to create art — story, song, sketch — that is universally loved?" A pause, because she knows she's straying into thought-experiment territory. "Hypothetically."

It is a thought experiment, but such things don't typically bother Verso. He once used to enjoy lofty conversation, always more enthused by the prospect of using his imagination than of strictly relying on fact. The same way he'd always preferred to paint the fantastical, thinking up things that didn't yet exist but perhaps someday could, rather than the realistic portraits his Maman tended towards.

It's a rather apt thought experiment, too. Feels less hypothetical than she portrays it to be.

"I think," he says, tapping his stack of books idly, "that's putting quite a lot of pressure on a creation to achieve perfection." Then, glancing up at her, he lobs the question back. "What do you think?"

"Perfection is a false premise. Expectations are not."

Expectations are heavy, subjective, and can weigh a person down if they don't understand how best to bear them. Just as they had briefly discussed duty earlier this conversation, Jasnah has felt the boulder-like burden of expectation. She has felt it as a scholar, rather than as an artist.

But like in art, the scholarship she has undertaken reveals things about her. Her limitations, her assumptions, her vanities. Beyond the expectation to produce something worth the time it took, there is an expectation that one buries a seed of themselves in their work.

Then, because he asked — because he dared — she gives him the full turn of the blade:

"...So. I think the value of a creation lies not in its perfection, but in the truths it cannot help but expose about its maker."

A faint tilt of her head.

"And that exposure makes some people very...uncomfortable.”

"I've heard that one before," he says, recalling countless lectures on just this. You'll never be a true artist if there's always a mask between you and the viewer, especially when the viewer is you.

Verso has already discussed the importance of authenticity in art at length—and argued back a million times; I am being authentic—so he doesn't linger on the topic for too long. Back to mere 'conversation' instead, asking questions about Jasnah and getting answers.

"You never answered your own question." A tilt of his head toward the book. "What do you think about romance novels?"

Once upon a time — for a very brief phase, in her twenties — Jasnah had wondered whether there wasn't something wrong with her. Her convictions had not always been so iron-clad. Her preferences had not always been so...understood. There was a period, however short, where she'd simply devoured romances like this. Searching for something, anything, that would inspire the delight and bloodrush she'd been assured was natural, easy, normal.

— And maybe romance novels don't make the best, most realistic manuals, but Jasnah did enjoy the tension and rapport-building. Two characters, circling each other with inevitable weight. When trust blossomed; when respect solidified; when they learned each other's minds as prelude to their bodies. Somehow, that expectation never translated well to any of her, ah, experimentation. Man or woman, the emotional connections she chased always seemed to pale in comparison to her desires. And, subsequently, the physical connection had no chance. The closest she'd ever come to something good enough...

Well. As she'd said. They'd been terrible for one another.

All of this to say Jasnah struggles with just how to formulate her answer.

"The stories can be so — warm and beautiful. Or devastating and passionate." She exhales, deflating. "But ultimately, I fear they set their readers up for disappointment."

It's not the warmth and beauty or devastating passion that's unrealistic about these stories, in his opinion. Verso has felt all of the above in spades; he's felt what it's like to hold the reassuring hand of someone who loves you, to be so mutually overcome with wanting that you tumble into bed with your clothes still half-on, impatient in the excitement. The disappointment only comes in finding that, despite many authors' vehement insistence to the contrary, there are some things love cannot conquer.

"Oh, I see," he says, giving her a Look™ like he's got her number. "You're one of those types. Disillusioned by love, is that it?"

As if he isn't the same. It's different, though—he's disillusioned by everything. Being loved by Julie had been a temporary and delusional reprieve from cold, hard reality. He'd just been too ignorant to realize it at the time.

Leaning back, he crosses his arms over his chest. "What did he do? Forget your birthday? Flirt with a friend?" He scrunches up his nose and adds, joking, "Slobbery kisser?"

Jasnah shakes her head. Disillusioned by love? Not at all. Hers is a life filled with love, even if its species might be unrecognizable by most. Her love for her family is fierce and deep to her bones. Her love for her people — for her entire planet — is similar. She even loved Wit, in her way. As he loved her in his.

No, Jasnah is disillusioned by sex. How frustrating, for her, that a 'tumble into bed' was most often painted as the apex of that emotion. The goal, the prize, the all-important consummation. When Jasnah became a Knight Radiant, first among her oaths was a terribly simple one: journey before destination. She feels that way about love, too.

Luckily, she never has to clarify her headshake. Verso steams onward, painting a very different kind of question. And, with a wrinkle of her nose, she wonders how she let the conversation slink shamefully back to her ex.

"He lied one time too many."

She could have stomached some dishonesty. But ultimately, a ten-thousand year old creature starts to see mortals less like partners and more like playthings. Pieces on the board.

"Ah," is all Verso says on that topic. Better not pipe up with did you ever think that maybe he had his reasons—

No, he keeps his tone and posture undefensive and unbothered. If he has opinions on the sometimes necessity of lying, he doesn't share them, instead gliding right on past the comment. As he always has with thoughts and feelings that others might not approve of.

Reassuring: "Well, you won't be disappointed forever." Despite everything, Verso does still believe in love. It's just better suited for other people rather than himself. He's too liable to make a mess of it. "Surely you have dozens of suitors eager to change your tune."

This, for once, is not petty flattery. She's royalty, pleasing to look at, rousing to talk to. If anything, he's surprised she ever made time for him at all.

Jasnah, meanwhile, does bristle and show a twinge of defensiveness. Who is he to say she's disappointed? Okay, sure, she was briefly disappointed. But she's so over her ex-boyfriend. So entirely completely over him. She, like, barely thinks of him anymore. Right?

Right...? — But then Verso says something about dozens of suitors and Jasnah snorts a derisive laugh. With any luck, she's frightened off any serious suitors years ago.

"Come, now. Surely there are more interesting topics to discuss. Flora? Fauna? Lumière's political system?"

Well, clearly he's the only one here who still believes in romance! He raises his eyebrows, but again says nothing. Making people feel better is sort of his thing, but he doubts Jasnah would respond well to his reassurances that she'll one day love again. Seems like the break-up is still... fresh.

So:

"I could tell you about the Gestrals. Fascinating little wooden creatures that live on the Continent."

"Sorry — did you say woodland creatures?"

Although she clearly misheard him, Jasnah doesn't hesitate to pick her pen up once more. She writes a tidy, shorthand header in her notebook. Oh, yes, she absolutely will be taking notes.

Verso's mouth twitches with pleasure. It's nice to have someone's full attention like this, even if it is only because of the stories he can tell instead of anything about him.

"Wooden," he corrects, lighting up a little under her interest, not unlike the way he'd blossomed while showing that scribe girl to waltz. "Imagine a poseable art mannequin, with a featureless mask for a face and bristle-like hair—"

He gestures above his own head, as if showing how their brush-heads stick straight up.

"They have their own culture and village, and they speak their own Gestral language. Although they can be taught the human language by a dedicated enough teacher." Ahem.

Her pen scratches demonstrate her active listening. Gentle, sloping characters and symbols — not all of them sourced in the Alethi women's script, but rather a stenographic system of her own invention. A way to take notes quickly, with the added benefit of being legible to only her.

Wooden — hmm! Her brows raise, but her eyes don't lift from the paper. His description of the Gestrals makes Jasnah half-want to sit Shallan down and have her sketch what he explains. Or maybe if she asked him, he'd...

Wait. A tilted frown.

"Is their village within the city?"

Oh. Fuck. He'd been so eager to share knowledge that Jasnah might find interesting that he hadn't considered that it would contradict what he's already shared with her.

"Uh, no," he says, lightly, casually. "On the Continent, as I said." And he doesn't add anything beyond that, because he has the right to avoid self-incrimination.

Her pen strokes are like whispers within the alcove. The heavy curtains dampen any sound of the larger library. This means there's a palpable, thick moment of silence as she considers what it means for him to tell her about these continental creatures.

— However. She isn't exactly suspicious of his story thus far. Rather, her suspicions fall instead on the accuracy of his information. If he's never left the city, and these mannequin-like creatures inhabit the larger continent, then at best he's seen one...in captivity? Perhaps in zoological sketches?

Watching him — but no less closely than she always watches him — she clarifies: "So, have you ever seen one? In the...flesh, so to speak."

"Of course I have," Verso blurts out with a scoff, because he may be an inveterate liar, but he's also a braggart. (Many good qualities!) God forbid Jasnah think he's not actually fun and interesting and knowledgeable about all sorts of fascinating things.

—A moment, wherein he runs through the things he's told Jasnah about Lumière already.

"You remember the Expeditions, right?" He assumes so, anyway. Verso gets the sense that she chronicles every tidbit of information she gets fed about other worlds. Arms out, as if showing off: "Well, I happen to have been an Expeditioner."

It's not a lie, just a trickle-truth.

There is no dramatic gasp. No softening. No widening of the eyes. Her reaction is quieter, more dangerous: she sets her pen down with an almost imperceptible click, a gesture that — coming from her — constitutes interest bordering on respect.

Her gaze slides over him, assessing not the claim but the decision to reveal it. "Expeditioner," she repeats, tasting the word. "You mentioned the volunteers. You talked about them like they were something — other."

A small tilt of her head. And yet, he mentions it now. After how many conversations? She does not chastise him. She does not praise him. She just...notices him harder than she did before. It's a one-way trip, he'd told her.

Her fingers lace loosely on the table, posture deceptively relaxed.

"Very well." She digests this truth and adds it to the puzzle that is this man. "Is that why you won't go back?"

They are something 'other'. He doesn't really think of himself as an Expeditioner anymore, hasn't thought of himself that way in a long time. He used to be one, back when it was still just search and rescue, when he and Renoir had signed up to find their missing family member left behind on the land that had been fractured from Lumière, just the same as many others had.

Soon, though, the Expeditions had taken a different turn, and his attempts to explain that the Paintress was no villain had gone— poorly. For a long time, he'd joined up with the Expeditions with the sole purpose of stymying their progress. Hard to think of yourself as a member of a group when you're dooming them.

"Because I'm afraid to die?" he asks. "No." Sometimes, he feels jealous of those the Gommage touches. At least their pain is over. "I'm just— tired of burying people."

A wrinkle in her understanding of him. A crack, filtering a cold-white reality that she can't quite reach. She's close enough to taste it on the air of their conversation. As if maybe, the right question with the right pressure would reveal all.

He isn't afraid to die. Jasnah wonders — does she believe him? And regardless of whether she does, what must that absence of fear feel like? She 'died' once, and sometimes in the half-seconds before she should fade asleep she wakes up gasping, remembering the blade lodged between her ribs. Never again, she promised herself.

Idly, her freehand fidgets and settles protectively against her side.

"— Why conceal it?"

Asked like a woman desperate to hear a good reason. Objectives must be weighed against methods. Actions must be weighed against motives.

"That's a little uncharitable, don't you think?" is probably the most pushback he's given her yet, although there's still a lightness to it. "Did you want me to share what I ate for breakfast, too?"

His argument: does it really matter? She only knows what an Expedition is in the first place because he told her. Surely that has to count for something in the way of 'openness' and 'honesty'.

"...I wasn't concealing anything." Not exactly. Omitting something isn't the same as concealing it. A lie with a fancy name is still a lie, the Clea-of-his-mind says. "There are just things that are— complicated." A beat. "And personal."

One lie too many, she said. Earlier. When Verso had probed after the final sin that ended her romance. Trouble is, it wasn't only a romance. It had been a carefully chosen and tended alliance. Peel away the heart and body, and there was still a meeting of minds. And she could never feel quite...steady, even so, given the nature of the partnership.

— There was one night, he'd knelt by her desk and gifted her the contract language they needed to bind Odium. As he plotted the protection of Roshar with her, he'd dip into a poetic technique he'd invented on the spot. He'd promised to stop, he'd acquiesced to her request to be serious for once, and yet he couldn't help himself from sneaking it in. Again, again, again. As if ordinary conversation was somehow too boring for him to follow, and he needed some additional challenge to make it worth his attention. And that behaviour only compounded.

It isn't fair to Verso — or anyone else in her life, for that matter — how much more distrustful she's become in the wake of those wounds.

Jasnah exhales, sitting back with suddenly lax posture. She pinches the bridge of her nose. "I apologize, I..."

I know I go too far at times.

"Tell me more about the Gestrals. Please."

Verso relaxes his posture, too, relieved that she isn't about to poke and prod and try to forcibly remove things from him that he isn't ready to share. He wonders if maybe she might be able to accept some of it— certainly not all of it, but maybe some of the less incriminating parts. His long life, to start. Unlike so many others, she might actually find it to be... if not a good thing, then at least an interesting thing. Some scientific topic to delve into.

He picks nervously at a loose thread on his trousers as he thinks it over. If she doesn't find out about it now, she'll surely accuse him of concealment if she finally does. Then again, maybe she doesn't ever have to find out at all. Maybe he could just keep things going like this, pretending the last 67 years never happened.

"—The Gestrals, right." A couple disoriented blinks as he pulls himself out of rumination, and then he's back on topic. "They're a lot like children. They're incredibly competitive, and they love to fight." They'd loved Verso, loved that they could hit him as hard as they wanted and he'd keep coming back. "They have this big arena in the village just for holding martial tournaments."

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