#wit fic

Warm , strong arms wrapped around her and gently lowered her to the ground.

Wit. Without doubt. He was saying... Something? His voice seemed horribly distant, but she thought that he was seeking permission. She nodded to him, tried to tell him to do it, whoever it was, but ended up only tasting blood. Still, for the first time since the bolt had pierced her chest, she felt her heart calm, and steady.

Maybe that meant that she was dying. But if she did, she would die feeling strangely safe. And she would not die alone. That was strangely comforting. Wit was speaking to her again, but she was slipping away from him, like smoke drifting free of a Soulcast object.

The last thing she was aware of was Ivory's terrified scream shattering through her mind.

Then she was darkness once again.

***

Wit liked to think himself largely shock proof.

Not electrical shocks, of course, he was still working on that. But startling shocks, the jump scares of life, unexpected occurrences around every corner. Those he felt he was damn near immune to.

After all, he'd been alive for a very long time. In the same way fans of horror plays began to sense the tell-tale warning signs that something strange and frightening was looming.

The smart playwrites began avoiding the tried and tested tropes and clues in a bid to shock the frequent theatre-goer.

Unfortunately, the truly savvy horror aficionados were able to still identify the deliberate absence of tells as tells themselves. And so, the drama reward was, one way or the other, ruined before it was ever reached.

Wit had been attending the theatre of life for a very, very long time. The writers were trying their best to catch him out, but with so much experience under his belt, it was just really very difficult to do. 

Jasnah Kholin stumbling from their shared chambers at sixteen minutes past three in the morning wearing nothing but her nightgown and a considerable amount of blood, gasping his name and seeming near unconsciousness? That did it.

In the flicker between heartbeats he had to assess the situation, his assessment wasn't good.

Jasnah's normally deep tan skin had turned a worrying gray. Her eyes, usually so sharp and focussed, were glassy and glazed with pain and fear.

Most of the blood that should have been in her body seemed to be staining her nightgown instead.

And there was a thick, wicked bolt protruding from her chest. A quick pulse of burned Steel told him it was aluminium based, which was less than ideal.

He met Jasnah's gaze and recognised her legs were about to give way under her. Flaring his pewter, he launched himself towards her and pulled her to him. 

Then he eased them both to the ground, giving her fascinating new things to bleed all over, such as his shirt, and the fluffy rug Navani had decorated the sitting area with.

She was growing cold already. 

It took everything in him to ease her away from his warmth and lower her to the ground so he could take a look at the damage. 

Flipping a simple hunting knife from his boot he split her dress down the front to expose the wound. She'd forgive him if she lived. And if she didn't, he'd see to it that he was appropriately punished on her behalf.

"That is not a good pattern." Design observed, pulsing with concern over his shoulder.

 "No," Wit agreed tightly, feeling his hand tremble even as he streaked forward to probe the bolt.

The pain he knew doing so would cause burned warningly in his chest. The Dawnshard’s lingering influence had forged a connection between himself and all living things. 

If he physically harmed them, the same damage would be reflected back to him on a far grander scale, naturally. It had become so ingrained within him now it was physically impossible for him to do it in most cases. Instincts reinforced over millennia took care of even the strongest pulses of anger and desires to inflict pain personally.

“Design, can you please find Lift, bring her here? Now." he said, with such grim finality in his tone that she didn't pause for one of her usual facetious comments before she left.

If he could get the bolt out himself the Stormlight he could sense pounding futile within her, like a trapped whitespine, should take care of the wound. If he couldn't... That was why Lift was coming. 

"Jasnah, love," he whispered softly, hoping her permission, such as she was capable of giving in this state, might make this easier for him. "I need to remove this thing that's made its unfortunate home in your chest. I'm afraid that it's going to hurt."

She nodded, and he was sure her lips formed the words 'do it' before she choked on her own blood. 

Fuck. He didn't have time to waste wondering whether he could do this. Or worrying about what would happen to him if he did. She was dying, and he couldn't let that happen.

Her body shuddered, and Ivory let at out an anguished cry as she lost consciousness in his arms.

Time stopped. 

Reality blurred. 

Something deep inside him became suddenly very dark and impossibly cold. It took him a moment to realise it was his heart. 

That fickle, feeble thing, more scar than soul at this point. It had withered, like a once beautiful blossom that since lived devoid of light and warmth and air. Both lost to dust and decay.

 Yet he felt it, now. 

He felt it on this quiet, unremarkable day, as he held Jasnah Kholin in his arms and contemplated the weight of her death. 

And he knew.

Whatever the cost to fix this, he would pay it. If he had to endure untold agonies, or shred another piece of his shattered soul, or rewrite the ending of worlds, or break an unbreakable contract, or pray to gods he'd renounced millennia ago...

He would do it. He would do it all.

Because, ah, sweet fool, he loved her. He loved this woman. He loved the breath and bones of her. The blood and soul. The logic and dreams. The wit and wonder. And the spit and bile of her, he loved that, too.

Without conscious thought, he wrapped a hand around the bolt in her chest, and pulled.

Once before he'd come close to death. True death. Not of the sort he'd described to Jannah as 'inconveniences’. That had been a permanent threat, a permanent end.

A Shard had managed to capture his essence, in his earlier years, when he’d been less careful, and more easily fooled. Then they had begun to methodically shred it, with no small amount of gloating glee.

Emotion by emotion, bit by bit, bloody chunk by bloody chunk, he'd been ruined.

In those horrifying moments, he'd felt sure he'd finally reached the last of his luck. He'd thought he was facing his end. And an end it would have been. One that would have been more final than even the Beyond. For if it had been completed, there would barely have been a memory left of him to echo through the Cosmere.

This was worse.

This was so much worse.

He had not known agony such as this in a long time. 

None of the Investiture he held helped in the slightest. It was but a flickering candle flame before the hurricane of consequence that currently ravaged him.

Some time ago, he’d learned that the line between help and harm could be incredibly thin. And that blurring it would not always work in his favour.

A part of him was sure that he was dying. And a larger part was begging for that to simply make all of this stop. But another, sharper, harsher part was convinced that if this had been going to end him, it would already have done so.

The first time he had nearly been rent into oblivion, all that had saved him had been the Shard's determination to not only end him, but to do it with as much unnecessary pain and drama as possible.

Wit enjoyed overzealous theatrics, especially when they gave him an opportunity to escape with the final shred of himself intact. Barely.

From there, over long centuries, he had painfully rebuilt what had nearly been taken from him.

He'd been careful never to go near the flame that had nearly consumed him again. Until now. Until he'd throw himself into it for her.

She returned that favor beautifully. 

For this time, all that saved him was her.

Her permission, in her final moments of lucidity, the trust she had given to him, in a way she had perhaps never given to anyone since she'd been a child. The faith she yielded to no God, she'd granted him in her deepest moment of vulnerability.

It had saved him. 

It had given him an anchor of certainty to cling to in his agony. Her conviction that, no matter the pain, he meant her no harm. And never would.

That act of love from a woman who saw harm and assassination in every flickering shadow, but had managed to find safety and salvation in him. It had been enough to save him, and now he only had to hope, in the slightest, most distant corners of his soul that were still capable of doing that, that it had been enough to save her, too.

On his knees, muscles violently shaking in spite of his Stormlight and his Pewter, Wit forced his eyes open to find Jasnah on the floor in front of him, still as a corpse.

Blood still seeped from the wound, which was smaller than before, but still deadly. Her Stormlight had run out keeping her alive as long as it had and now...Now she was not breathing.

"No," he breathed, dragging his pain ravaged body closer to her. "No. We're not yet done here, Jasnah Kholin. Not by any stretch of even my imagination." 

He breathed out, expelling all of his own remaining Stormlight in a shimmering cloud above her. Doubling over as the wave of nausea rolled over him, he clenched his fist and forced himself to lift his head so he could see her.

Breathe he willed her. I know you're too stubborn to die like this. Breathe damn you.

She did. 

First a 'breath' to draw in his Stormlight, then a wheezing rasp as she forced air into her rapidly healing lungs.

Wit slumped down onto the furry carpet, dizzy with relief and with the consequences of his foolish decisions.

He listened to the rhythmic sounds of Jasnah's chest rising and falling. And strained his Tin until he could hear the pleasing accompaniment of her heart beating, strong and defiant, like her. 

She really did make such sweet music. 

He closed his eyes, and listened to the ragged sounds of her breathing. The life he had bought with his gamble, and his pain. Worth it. So absolutely, completely, undoubtedly worth it. 

Her logic would have condemned that thinking. He’d bought her a few more decades of life with the potential sacrifice of millennia on his end? He could almost hear her voice telling him he was a Storms damned fool. 

It just made him smile. Because she was breathing beside him. And her heart was still beating. And she was still here, and still his, and that was all that mattered to him in the whole fucking Cosmere at the moment.

This symphonious serenade was interrupted by a chaotic donor at the door. Hauling himself to his feet he answered it and found Lift.

"I have obtained the strange Edgedancer!" Design informed him helpfully, sounding very pleased with herself.

"I ain't strange," Lift insisted, barging into the room and heading for Jasnah, gliding across the floor, bagel in her left hand.

"It was a compliment," Wit told her tiredly, closing the door and turning to face the chaos of the room with a wince.

"It was a factual observation," Design corrected, sliding across the wall alongside him, “I took a survey to back it up."

"Design, please," Wit groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He was neither drunk nor Invested enough to deal with that conversation right now. 

Lift was crouched over Jasnah, examining the still healing wound. Aluminium injuries sometimes took longer to fully heal, even after the offending object had been removed. Lingering traces of the metal still caused problems with the Investiture healing. It was horrible stuff, truly.

"Damnation jester man," Lift said, whistling between her teeth, "What kind of freaky starvin' stuff have you two been doing in the bedroom? "she demanded, incredulous. "Pretty sure you're meant to stick it in her downstairs bits, not her chest. Figured you'd know that."

Regret. Yes, that was that feeling knocking against the inside of his skull like an insect trapped in a glass.

"I didn't stick it anywhere" he replied, with far less levity than he would ordinarily have mustered. It had not been a very levitous night. 

"Yeah, I've heard that can happen." she said, tone half- knowledgeable, half -sympathetic. 

In hindsight, he should have just let Jasnah bleed. The rug wasn't getting any less ruined. Unlike his sanity.

"If, could you please-"he began wearily, gesturing impatiently to Jasnah.

"Alright, alright," she said, sounding exasperated, as though he were being unreasonable in redirecting her attention to the woman slowly bleeding all over the floor. 

Her power flared, and a moment later she said, proudly, "There, see, she's waking up already." 

Wit stopped his pacing and knelt down by his queen once more, placing her head gently into his lap and stroking her hair back away from her face. Lift, for once wise, made no comment.

Jarrah stirred and groaned as he trailed his fingers gently through her hair and Ivory stood on her chest and minutely examined Lift's progress.

As her eyes opened and her vision clarified on him, those words were on his tongue. 

Those foolish, damning words that had nearly gotten him killed tonight.

The sudden powerful rush of emotion that hit him as she looked at him nearly knocked them from his lips, like a High storm wall dislodging a boulder.

But he smothered them with a smile, and held them inside. He wasn’t totally sure why. It just didn’t feel quite right. Not now. Not like this.

She stiffly raised herself enough to survey the damage.

Then she pursed her lips and said, "Rather unnecessary treatment of my best nightgown, wouldn't you say?" 

Wit choked on a laugh and pulled her close, resting his forehead against hers, keeping himself from covering her mouth with has only through millennia of cultivated restraint.

"Hello! You're welcome!" Lift’s loud, irritable voice burst in on the intimate moment, like a chull lumbering into a banquet and demanding to know where the sweets were.

Her arms spread indignantly wide to remind them she was still there and was responsible for Jasnah's current consciousness, she glared pointedly at both of them.

"Thank you, Lift." Jasnah said graciously, even as she gripped Wit's arm painfully to pull herself upright. “You may go to the kitchens if you wish. Tell them I approve the making of any dish you request." 

A gleam of near feral glee flickered into her eyes at this and she squinted at Jasnah before clarifying, “The royal kitchens, right?” 

Jasnah nodded, and Lift’s grin became absolutely and undoubtedly feral a moment before she saluted Jasnah, then shot off as fast as she could go.

"You may regret that," Wit said lightly, knowing only too well what kind of dish Lift was likely to order.

Jasnah, who probably had a shrewd idea too, allowed, “Perhaps. But it's a regret I'll deal with tomorrow. For now-" she began to rise with difficulty," My chambers must be investigated. The fabrial trap must be sent to my mother for examination. Then we must have the guards on duty interviewed, as well as any servants or maids who have had access to my quarters, and-"

" Jasnah," Wit interrupted quietly, one hand resting gently on her arm, drawing her back to him for a moment before she rose and drew away.

Some deep, instinctual part of him that he usually kept such an excellent hold on after all these centuries of civilised existence, it needed her. It needed her here with him for just a moment longer. He was not yet ready to let her go. Not when he’d come so close to never being able to hold her again so recently.

She obliged and turned back to face him, seeming to understand, though she too leashed those parts of herself as well.

Ever grateful, he dipped forwards and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, tender and intimate, then rested his forehead against hers.

Again, his traitorous tongue almost told her, but instead he murmured sleepily,  “I'm very glad you're not dead." 

Her lips quirked into a faint smile at that, “You say the sweetest things," she deadpanned in that way of hers that he loved so well.

"I know," he sighed, with an appropriate and expected level of drama, "I spoil you so much." 

She pulled back a little and studied him with a keen eye, “I feel I should be expressing to you, too, that I'm pleased you aren't dead,” she said with a slight frown.

"Only if you really mean it," he said, with mock seriousness.

She ignored that, except for a slight frown. Then she asked, blunt and direct as ever, "What happened?"

"You ate all of my Stormlight." he returned smoothly. Technically it was true. But it was so far from the full truth of what had passed between them that it felt more like a lie, somehow.

"How rude of me," Jasnah said quietly, pressing another soft kiss to his lips.

 He could tell that she was not fully satisfied with that, however, and would likely return to it before long to tease further information from him. Damnable woman knew him too well.

"We have work to do," Jasnah said, getting to her feet with a poorly canceled wince and a wobble.

"Yes, we do," Wit agreed grimly, also rising and readying himself for a fight as he added, “We need to rest and recuperate and follow the advice of a healer on how best to recover."

Janak, as anticipated, didn't much like this suggestion.

She frowned slightly and said, “There will be time for rest and recovery later, Wit. There was an assassin in my personal chambers who made a very good attempt at killing me. I-"

"They did." Wit said very softly. 

"What?"

"They did kill you," he murmured, meeting and holding her intense violet eyes as he spoke, seeing something shift within them a moment before she blinked and turned away, unable to hold his gaze and whatever she saw within it.

Unable to stop himself, he reached out and took her hand, gently twining his fingers with hers, as the Cosmere had tangled their fates. 

"You died, Jasnah." he told her softly. " I watched you die." 

They both let that statement echo, done and unchallenged in the silence that followed. 

Then he squeezed her hand and said, "Please." 

She studied him hard, considering his words, hisintent, then she sighed faintly and nodded, yielding to his good sense. 

“Vey well." she agreed, “But I am not comfortable remaining here," She looked around at their quarters with a slight shiver. 

Once her sanctuary, now it would forever be the place where she had died. She did not get overly attached to places, or things, in general. She was the least materialistic aristocrat he’d ever met. Yet this had been a place of safety, and refuge, and the violation of that would probably haunt her more than the injuries themselves, already swiftly on the road to being fully healed. Smooth skin spread over another scar that she would never forget, regardless of the lack of physical reminder.

As if to illustrate this point, she said, with a grim expression, "But  in the morning, we find the bastards that did this."

"I've no objection to that whatsoever," he said smoothly, even though that was a lie.

Right now he never wanted her to go to work again. He wanted her to remain in his arms, safe, and whole, and unharmed. 

He couldn't have that. He knew he couldn't have that. He shouldn’t want that. That was the point of this relationship. That they each had goals larger than one another, that they had always known and accepted that from the very beginning. It was what they had both wanted. A relationship beyond simple wants. A relationship of deep, nuanced understanding of two of the Cosmere’s most complex creatures. 

And now...Well now he’d gone and fucked that right up, hadn’t he? He’d gone and fallen in love with her. Because of course he had. How could he not? 

It had been centuries since someone had challenged him as surely as she challenged him. On every fundamental level of his existence, she met, and even exceeded him. 

It was thrilling, and intoxicating. 

And more than that. More than the challenge. More than her ability to go toe-to-toe with him and even come out on top. It was her understanding of him, her acceptance of who and what he was. Even as he understood and accepted her, and- 

What an idiot. What an absolute, Adonalsium damned idiot he was. 

He could not contain this woman. He could barely even keep up with her most days. He would never be allowed to hold her gently in his arms and keep her safe from the world. No. She would not permit that. 

So he settled in the short term for pulling her into his arms now, one hand held about her waist while his other tangled in her long, black hair.

I love you. His heartbeat said, where it pounded against his ribs, pressed so close to her an irrational part of him thought she must feel it. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

It was not some impulse foolishness from a boy panicked with his first crush. No. He was old. Old and stupid. So much so that he'd walked this path before.

The woman in his arms was not a fleeting fantasy conjured up by a frantic, terrified mind. She was solid, and real, and warm. And every inch of him was in love with her.

Truly in love with her.

Not in love with that desperate moment. Not in love with the unattainable idea of her that she could never be. No. His idiotic, foolish, witless little heart loved her in all the way it was possible for one person to love another.

Fucked. That's what he was. Well and truly fucking fucked.

But he didn't tell her. Because he was not yet that stupid.

He just held her.

Held her and kissed her and cared for her, for the few hours in which she would allow him to do so.

He helped her out of her ruined gown. Wiped the blood and gore from her skin as she bathed. Braided her still damp hair. Helped her into a clean nightgown and a different bed.

Then he held her again as she finally managed to drift off in his arms. And as he did, he thanked whichever Shard, or God, or raw force in this world had let him save the woman he loved. 

The woman he loved. 

Oh fuck him, this was unlikely to end well at all.