[Paul doesn't mind the rain. If anything, it's comforting, the familiar patter that had been the background for most of his life. He doesn't have much to say, for once in his life, only nodding at Palamedes' guidance, explanations, a slight think nothing of it wave of the hand at the rain, murmured:]
I'm used to it.
[Tempting fate, he thinks. He might as well be waving a red cape at it. There will have to be someone else, when he does what this is all bending towards, and it's no less than he deserves for what he's doing, has done. If it's going to have to be someone - at least let it be someone reasonable. Come get me, then, he tells no one in particular. Come get me and I'll show you what I think of this.]
I'll remind you, about writing it down. And I'll wait here until you're done.
[He isn't saying much, but he is watching, and it aches something of his own when Palamedes looks at the ashes. (And because he can never stop himself, he marvels at how Palamedes did it, at the pull his mind must have exerted to overcome the memory's inertia.)
Paul finds a place at a discreet distance (close enough to be called if needed, far enough the rain will muffle anything Palamedes has to say) and folds his legs underneath him to kneel. He keeps his eyes open, but fixed on nothing, as he slips into a shallow meditation. It's nearly peaceful, this grey misery, the softening edges of no longer fresh grief.
Maybe something incredibly haunted will happen to him. If something eats him before Palamedes comes back, it might be less awkward for everyone involved.]
no subject
I'm used to it.
[Tempting fate, he thinks. He might as well be waving a red cape at it. There will have to be someone else, when he does what this is all bending towards, and it's no less than he deserves for what he's doing, has done. If it's going to have to be someone - at least let it be someone reasonable. Come get me, then, he tells no one in particular. Come get me and I'll show you what I think of this.]
I'll remind you, about writing it down. And I'll wait here until you're done.
[He isn't saying much, but he is watching, and it aches something of his own when Palamedes looks at the ashes. (And because he can never stop himself, he marvels at how Palamedes did it, at the pull his mind must have exerted to overcome the memory's inertia.)
Paul finds a place at a discreet distance (close enough to be called if needed, far enough the rain will muffle anything Palamedes has to say) and folds his legs underneath him to kneel. He keeps his eyes open, but fixed on nothing, as he slips into a shallow meditation. It's nearly peaceful, this grey misery, the softening edges of no longer fresh grief.
Maybe something incredibly haunted will happen to him. If something eats him before Palamedes comes back, it might be less awkward for everyone involved.]