deercountry | let me look at the sun

Entry tags:

let me look at the sun | open

Who: Paul Atreides, open
What: Event catch-all
When: Month of December
Where: Archaic Archives, streets of Trench, the forest's edge, memories
Notes: Go ahead and contact me at

terriblepurpose or by PM if you'd like to discuss any starters or suggest new ones! For tagging in your character's memories to Paul, feel free to start with whatever your preference is.

Content Warnings: Violence, body horror (lockjoint), death, religious extremism, extensive Dune spoilers, suicidal ideation, funerals, grief

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That I don't know. [Fun! This, the concept of souls going insane in the River, is much more fun than the dinner party downstairs. He wonders briefly if it's still happening, if it continues while they aren't around to look at it, and if so, then have Magnus and Abigail...

Well. The River.]

The River and other liminal spaces aren't my area of expertise. I've been told that traversing the River without a considerable amount of thanergy and a life to return to would be... [He waves a hand, moving to take a seat at a rickety, flimsy-covered table in an equally aged armchair.] Inadvisable.

[He considers the facts, call them. Aha. He wonders if Paul should know these things - if anyone outside the Nine Houses should be burdened with the true breadth of their bullshit - but it's not as if the River is here.

It's a squid-filled fucked up ocean. Very different. Nuanced.]

As far as I'm aware, the River is it. Someone from the Fifth- [mmph] -would be able to tell you more; they have a gift for talking to the dead. Holding a soul together takes focus and energy, far more than when the soul is contained in its own original body, particularly when it's someone else's. Most people aren't prepared to do that when they die, so let's say that they drown, whether they die suddenly or after a long, long time.

[A beat.]

Metaphorically drown, that is.

[Paul has stopped walking, at some point in Palamedes' explanation. He has stopped looking at anything on the walls. He is simply standing there, looking at Palamedes, with eyes wider than they were even on the ice, when he first saw magic.

He had told Palamedes he was sorry about his losses assuming that, if the soul was real in the way he was inferring, there was an end, if the soul was not eternal, or an afterlife, if it was. The idea that any one of those pleasant seeming people downstairs are now insane ghosts lost in a River leading nowhere was not one that occurred to him.]

I see. [His voice is careful, as he thinks it through. He has to assume that his initial shock at learning this isn't completely abnormal, although it probably happens at a younger age.] Maybe we should-

[And he can't go through with it. He stops, presses two aching fingers into the bridge of his nose, and shakes his head.] I keep saying things that make it worse. You should have asked me to turn her into a statue of salt, something like that. I'd have been better at it.

[Well—

That isn't what Palamedes expects. He hadn't anticipated anything, really - is this not just academic curiosity? - but oh, to have that last piece slide into place and realize Paul is still thinking about her is...

Why salt, he thinks, and he doesn't ask. He takes off his glasses and drops them on the table with a little clatter, leaning back in the armchair with a hand rubbing over his face. Okay; they're unpacking this. Or they're circling around this. He's certain the distinction doesn't really matter.]

You can't make this worse, [he says, half through his fingers, and it's a gauzy web of reassurance over a brick of fact. This isn't real, this whole thing. This happened. It's over. Paul cannot, objectively, do anything that will worsen the circumstances of this dinner party or anything else at Canaan House, because—well, Palamedes doesn't want to belabor the point to himself, either.

This was a ghost lesson until twenty seconds ago, so hold on.

To the ceiling he says,] I already handled it. The others helped.

[Probably. Then, as he lifts his head and squints, spectacles-less, at Paul, now is the time to ask:] Why salt?

Symbolic. And less terrible than anything else I thought of.

[Paul says it flatly from behind his hand, his head still bowed. When he drops it and looks up, he only looks tired, and still sorry. There's another chair, probably one that Palamedes' 'others' sat in, once, and Paul drags it in Palamedes' direction instead of speaking further. He sits down, arranging himself with his hands flat on his thighs and his back straight.]

I'm glad you have that, at least. [His revenge, that is. Paul had been wondering. And that explains more of Palamedes, Paul thinks, although he's finding the necromancer to have depths and facets he wouldn't have predicted.] The point of these is to hurt us, have you realized that yet? It took me a while. They say it's meant to bring us together, they don't say what the mechanism is. But it makes sense, doesn't it? Surviving shared hardship is a bonding agent, so -

[He gestures: all this. His voice has been nothing but quiet and tense, not a whisper, but not intended to be easy to overhear. Now it rises again, and he looks directly at Palamedes, and lets his face and voice be unguarded in their sincerity:]

But you helped me when I had nothing, and I'm in your debt. That was real. And no, there is nothing I can do for you here, I know that. How could I? You've barely met me.

So I'm sorry, that this is how I know. If I ever did, it should have been from you. And I should have said that at the start.

[The point of these is to hurt us. Palamedes hums, picking his glasses up to fiddle with the arms. Yes, he had a feeling; he's yet to wander into one that's been pleasant all the way through. The air in the room feels that much stuffier, from a discomfort that has nothing to do with the covered windows; nor Paul, who is so damnably earnest that it would make Palamedes smile, if they weren't—here.

Ghost lessons. Dinner party. He asks himself, Does it hurt?, and recalls with idle non-surprise that of course it does. The dull familiarity of heartbreak and loss and rage and all else that's congealed in his chest for months is still there; it has been there. Maybe that's why he can wander through this memory without participating, or losing himself in the emotions; what do these powers that be think—that this is something new?

He drums his fingers on the table's edge. He sticks his glasses back on, lets out a breath he wasn't aware of holding.]

Thank you. [All other platitudes, oh-no-don't-worry-about-it, no-it's-nothing-really, all feel clumsy and trite. Thank you, for the honesty. He'll remember it.] Despite our mutual paranoia about this thing, I think the damned bonding agent might've worked. Sorry about my mess.

[Ha. Really, though. He sits back, looking at the covered window as if it's not actually covered, like perhaps he's going to sit here and wait it out in silence—but no, it's barely thirty seconds before he sits up again. There's an itch at the back of his mind: resolution.]

There is something you can help me with, but you only have to get me to the door. Then, I think we can go.

[And deal with the next thing, unsaid in how he doesn't at all try to make subtle the way he glances at Paul's crystal-bruised joints. Resolve and move on, tidily. A nice thought.]

Edited (do not mind my phrasing adjustment) 2021-12-22 06:06 (UTC)

[Paul doesn't expect Palamedes' reaction to be thank you. He was expecting the chill of immediate rejection, and he wouldn't have been offended by it. Saddened to lose out on what could have been a friendship, yes, but it would have been understandable. Everything he knows about the subtle dancing art of social warfare dictates that a move like the one he just made would result in nothing less. Palamedes can almost certainly see his surprise, his relief, his humbling in the face of unwarranted grace.

He didn't do it to gain anything. He did it because he couldn't bear to keep balancing on the edge of manipulation, because he lost his nerve to strike at a moment of perfect opportunity. And yet: he feels as though he has been given a gift.

There's more ease in Paul as he sits up to match Palamedes, an unwinding of a tension he's been carrying since he got here and realized his transgression. Even his joints seem less stiff.]

You have nothing to apologize for. Believe me. You should see mine. [He rises from his chair and tugs his sleeve up, repeats his little process of scraping at his scabs. Once again, he'll open the door on Palamedes' cue.] Point the way. Let's get you out of here.

That's tempting fate.

[Ha, but surely that wouldn't happen. Surely not. Palamedes stands, mindful of the flimsy and the errant stacks of book so he doesn't topple any. He moves, stopping at the door to give the room one last sweeping gaze; that's it, then. Time to go.]

Now we have to go outside, I'm afraid. And I'm sorry in advance, because I mostly remember this place when it was raining.

[Nothing for it, anyway. He'll make the trip down and out to one of the miserable grey terraces as quick as he can, for Paul's sake. It is raining, if only a little; an equally grey and miserable patter to herald their arrival to a steel chimney and some sad-looking, long-abandoned planters, and Palamedes' abrupt stop, once they're within the chimney's sights.

He hadn't come out here when the incinerator had burned, it had been later that they'd all rifled through — there, an out of place bowl sitting on a low ledge, filled with more grey and more misery.]

It's mixing contexts, [he says idly, glancing at Paul, acutely aware of the memory rain dripping persistently into the bowl.] I thought it might bring things out here if I focused hard enough. Remind me to write it down, later.

[Brightly, and then after taking a few steps toward the bowl and the furnace, he spins back around in a grey (and miserable) whirl. He doesn't need to ask Paul to give him space; Paul is demonstrably not the kind of person who needs to be told something like that in circumstances of this magnitude, but - just for clarity's sake.

Just to control one thing properly in this memory of memories, before he talks to a bowl for ten minutes.]

Okay! Can you give me a minute? Or a few? This is...

[He gestures somewhat helplessly at the mismatched scene laid out behind him. Ah, this is his heartbreak? Well. A significant bowl of ashes can be only so many things, and since Paul has a point about learning things on Palamedes' own terms, then:]

She was important to me. I'll be right back.

[A beat, then he spins back around to continue on to the chimney. He'll be swift; there isn't much to say that he didn't already write down.]

[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.]

[It's a little more grey and a little more miserable, as Palamedes leans against this ledge beside this bowl and simply looks at it for a long several moments. He doesn't touch it; his hand rests just to the side of it, a hair's breadth away, and if the low murmur of his voice carries through the rain and over to Paul — so be it. He has two primary topics of interest here, in this memory that is not real but for now may as well be: an apology, and an update.

He keeps the apology brief; a solid half of the update is about Camilla. Neither one lifts his grief and carries it away from him, not really, but rather the opposite—almost. Like the heavy blanket of grief that has settled over him, the tendrils of it that have wrapped around every part of him inside have moved deeper into a private part of the heart; not gone, but not so all-encompassing. It's been a terribly long eight months.

When he wanders back to Paul and stoops to tap him on the shoulder, his outer robe is gone to reveal more grey underneath; the robe draped over the bowl some yards back, to stop the rain getting in.

He's tired. This was done to hurt him. He can't stop turning the two over at the back of his mind, he's so tired, they wanted to reach into his chest and close a fist around his heart, he's never been more exhausted or resentful than this — hmm.

Well, that's spite. Now he has that to keep around, too. For later, just in case.]

Hi.

[Buddy. Chum. Palamedes sighs and takes a seat on the ground himself, looking around for a magic deer. Not yet; maybe the powers that be need to analyze precisely how red-ringed his eyes have gotten, here in the metaphysical realm.]

Oh; you were focused. [aha. hey. cool cool cool.] Sorry. Is that from your secret training? Honest question.

Mm?

[Paul blinks Palamedes back into focus, returning from his contemplation of the feeling of water running down the back of his neck. That and a few other things, most of them about a graveyard very unlike this in form and yet not unlike this in feeling. He assesses the lapsed time, the missing robe, the covered bowl, the lack of stag.]

Yes. Prana-bindu, breath-muscle control. [He tips his head back and looks up at the sky, closing his eyes against the rain.] It was more not being focused. I was listening to the rain. You know - I'd never thought I'd hear rain again? There's no precipitation on Arrakis, it's a desert world. But I come from an oceanic planet. Caladan.

[In other words: I wasn't listening to you, and here's something you didn't know about me. (Paul is surprised at himself that he didn't even try to listen. He didn't expect that of himself, either.) With eyes still closed, he says:]

So there's that.

[All of it, he means.]

[Ah, the art of not being focused, that's one Palamedes will never manage to master. To wit, he's already wondering about the flesh mechanics of breath-muscle control, and whether that isn't a kind of self-imposed almost-necromancy — without the theorems and the diagrams, of course, without thanergy, or the implications would be far too strange to really consider...

He hums. Yes, that is a talent he does not have, but he thinks for a moment that if he sits here in the drab rain and listens to Paul talk about it - and his various worlds - that maybe that will be close enough. It's not questioning what he said to the bowl or how he's feeling about any of that now, and that much Palamedes vastly appreciates. The quiet acknowledgement, indirectly at best — there's a shade there that reminds him of Camilla, and that's never a bad thing.

His silence for the next handful of seconds, then, is another thank you; letting the rest seep into the background, and taking the chance to change the subject:]

Do they- God, this is going to sound ridiculous, do they go outside? [A desert planet? And it's not moments away from burning at any given time?? Wild.] On the Sixth we're too close to the star — the Library is on the dark side, and the only reason anyone would go to the light side would be to melt their face off instantly.

[So, like, do they go outside on Arrakis? That's genuinely novel. As an afterthought, he taps the ancient floor of this terrace.]

This is the First. By the way. If we're going to be here waiting for our escort for who knows how long, I wouldn't mind whatever you'd share about your home.

[Either one. Whichever happens to come to mind.]

[It has to be Arrakis, then; Paul thinks he would have chosen it anyway. Caladan is beautiful, but Arrakis - he thinks Palamedes will appreciate Arrakis.

(And because he took almost fourteen years to learn to pull off that little trick of his, now that he's out of it: so if this is the First, and the Sixth is a tidally locked inner planet, and there is a Ninth, it implies at least nine Houses and non-sequential planetary naming. Interesting.)]

They do go outside. It's only safe to do it at night, but near the poles you can survive for a while in the mornings and evenings - it does rotate, almost standard, about twenty four hours.

[Paul brings his chin down and opens his eyes. Where does he start, past that simple question? Where else. His face is soft, his voice thoughtful as he begins:]

You can't talk about Arrakis without talking about spice. [Paul wonders if talking about necromancy felt like this, glancing at Palamedes - it's surreal to explain something everyone already knows.] The spice melange is a geriatric drug. It improves life and extends lifespan. It's an addictive narcotic. But more important than any of that, it's the key to space travel. Guild Navigators are the only ones in the universe who can navigate between worlds reliably or quickly, and they do so by consuming the spice in quantities large enough to allow for the prescience needed to safely plot the courses between stars.

[Paul will allow for a moment for Palamedes to grapple with the implications of that, and then:] Arrakis is the only planet spice is found on, threaded through the desert sands.

[Imagine that, Palamedes thinks, a world where one can go outside even a little. That he thinks this while sitting outside in the memory of one world that he's experiencing from another that also has a perfectly serviceable outdoors does not escape him - but that's not the point. He does appreciate Arrakis, in a way; it's not the Sixth, even by this brief description, but it's the kind of thing he'd ask about. Rotations and timings.

Maybe it's that Paul thought to tell him that bit specifically that he appreciates the most; who can say. Now then, after a considerable beat:]

Prescience is real, then?

[You know, just like ghosts are real? Necromancy by definition is firmly rooted in things-what-have-already-Been, so yes, that part in particular is more shocking than a planet that apparently produces a miracle drug in sand.]

Your planets must be farther apart than ours, if you need prescience to get around. [And he says "universe," which is equally telling. Palamedes takes another moment to think about the scope of that alone; every House in the Empire cloisters away to themselves at least on some level, as an Empire they are fairly shit at communicating, the Sixth included — so the universe?

The whole thing?

He looks long into the grey mist dredged up by the rain and makes a soft huh sound, then looks at Paul.]

This spice sounds like a fine line to walk. [And what would it do for necromancy— no, no. No.] What is it, do you know? Chemically?

A very fine line. It's an open secret that many cross it.

They call it the Empire of Ten Thousand Worlds, but I don't think anyone could tell you how many there actually are, or how far apart. Possibly the Spacing Guild, but that brings us back to spice. The Guild Navigators guard the secret of the spice closely. Most people think it's a form of complex mathematics, what they do, calculating the deterministic physics of the universe, and that must be part of it, but it's prescience that checks those calculations. You can only travel at the speeds needed for space travel if you can predict a perfect course from the beginning, since there's no mind fast enough to react as the ship travels. I'd always wondered how it was done.

[It would be too much to have hoped Palamedes would say something like, oh, prescience, of course, and launch into another dense explanation of a well-studied branch of study. That's not the point of this. The point is that it's done what he hoped: be the kind of puzzle that can distract from grief. It's what he's used it for, turning it over and over in his mind. It's how he came to the conclusion about the Guild - and the reason for so much of what had happened, unlocked too late to matter.

Paul holds a palm out to catch the rain; he's truly soaked now, cold cloth clinging to his skin, but he thinks of gold-flecked sand and its searing heat.]

Interfering with spice production is forbidden. No one who holds the monopoly on the planet would risk offending the Spacing Guild by doing anything that might be construed as that. Even the Emperor treads lightly with them. Without the Spacing Guild and their Navigators, space travel is impossible - they can kill a House by stranding it, but if you threatened their control over spice, they'd bring the full force of the Empire down on you.

You don't need to know what spice is, or where it comes from, to mine it, and make your House rich for generations. [He shakes his head, looking at Palamedes - who will understand very well how much of a frustration that is.] That was one of the things I wanted to find out when we got there. That brings us to the ecology.

The other thing that only occurs on Arrakis are the sand worms. [Paul tips his hand, pooled water falling from it.] They're massive filter feeders, some over four hundred metres long, that tunnel through the sand with vibration, hunting by sound. They're the greatest danger on Arrakis. And they always follow the spice.

[Paul pauses here. He wants to see if Palamedes will also draw the conclusion that's seemed so obvious to him from almost the start, but has somehow escaped the notice of anyone else: the worms and the spice are linked.]

Edited 2021-12-25 04:29 (UTC)

[Puzzles within puzzles; did space travel predate the need for prescience, if its source is only found on one desert planet? Did they plod around one star like the Nine Houses do, until someone accidentally found something better? What would the complex mathematics look like, to plan a perfect journey through space before it happens?

Much to think about. Economics are less his concern, but he gives Paul a sympathetic look all the same, thinking of all the pre-Resurrection secrets and so on that have yet to be uncovered back home. Even secrets as recently as a few centuries ago...

But. Worms. Big worms, big worms that enjoy this spice as much as the next prescient navigator, it seems—]

It's a renewable resource? I'm assuming the worms were around before the spice trade.

[And if they are still around, following a thing that is mined in - one also assumes - large quantities to fund an empire, well... What is it! Different sand?

He scoffs, leaning his elbows on his knees and drumming his fingers on the wet terrace again, Thinking. Big worms and a mystery product...]

I can't believe not a single person thought to look into what it is. How long have the mines been operating? Someone ought to be fired for gross oversight. [Incredibly stupid!! Ugh!] Or they could have at least asked the worms.

[Hah, but also: yes, he's noticed that little crumb of worm theory. The creatures unique to the only planet that produces this miracle drug — Palamedes isn't sure how that couldn't be obvious, and so he wonders if Paul means to imply that this Space Guild, or whoever else, is just ignoring it because big worms aren't as profitable, or something.

He doesn't know anything about economics. But what came first, the worm or the spice melange? Now that is the puzzle.]

Four hundred meters, really? That's horrifying.

[It's always interesting to observe the patterns of other people's thoughts. The questions they ask are as telling as the answers they give, and Paul is already thinking of how he'll sketch out the broad strokes of history for Palamedes some other time. The Butlerian Jihad alone will take at least half a day. So much of it is economics and bitter secrecy, and Paul can't help but compare this world's seeming much more open sharing of knowledge with his own.

On the other hand, all the academic sharing here ended in bloodshed as well. Maybe that's the fate of scholars: to carve each other up for their secrets.]

It's been long enough, centuries, more - we should know. Know how the spice renews itself, know how the sand worms seek it out, and why. But anyone who asked those questions ended up never asking another question again. [Paul slicks his hair back from his face, shaking his head.] At first, all anyone wanted to do was kill them. It's almost impossible, but they tried. Then once the spice was discovered, all that mattered was finding ways around them to harvest it.

And you would think they were horrifying, but they aren't. I've seen one up close. [And there is a soft awe in his voice, even now.] It was like looking into the universe's eye, Palamedes. The dark circular void of its throat feathered with teeth like an iris, wide enough to swallow a hundred man troop without one touching the sides. When they move, the sand flows like water, and the spice shines in it like bronze.

[Paul can remember it so clearly. That's what makes him think of what he does next, as he half-closes his eyes and hums to himself, rubbing what remains of the blood under his nails between his fingertips. As watery as it is, it's enough for this: tiny metallic flecks dancing out of nothingness between the raindrops, bringing the scent of cinnamon with them. The shallow puddles shiver, although the ground itself is still.]

That's what Arrakis is like. An unanswered question, an open eye full of teeth. [He says it like someone else might say it's beautiful.] I wish you could see it. You'd have the right kind of questions.

Edited 2021-12-26 06:50 (UTC)

[Palamedes glances at Paul with what can only be described as brief concern; he's seen a big monster worm up close? Palamedes can't say he's sure he'd be able to keep it together if he faced down a void full of teeth, and he likes to believe he's faced down some somewhat-comparable horrors. He supposes he can see the merit in something so unthinkably horrifying that it loops back around into being awe-inducing.

Maybe. Paul talks about these worms — An open eye full of teeth — far more evocatively than the actual creature would be to him, Palamedes Sextus, standing in front of one, he's sure. Let something be said for the drama of it; he hums, brow quirked as he takes in the cinnamon smell, putting a pin in that for later.]

That's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me. A genuine top five. Having the right questions is my hobby, after all.

[Haha. But really, actually. He thinks for a moment.]

You said you were born somewhere else, but — it sounds like it suits you. Your Arrakis. A place like that demands someone treat it with the proper respect, I imagine; you could.

[And like a tidy punctuation mark, the sound of hooves scuffing along the terrace drifts over the steady drip-drip-drip of the rain. Palamedes looks up — Ah, he says — and then moves to stand, offering Paul a hand as he does.

The magic deer is here. Maybe they should talk to it. Hmhm.]

That's our cue. Remember: I'll be along within the hour to help with those crystals, so try not to go anywhere else before then, alright? Specifically not any more of these.

[He wags a finger in a circle; these, the memories. Please, sit still somewhere. He nods and turns to look at the deer.]

Okay? See you soon.

[Good news: he will be there inside an hour, as promised. Bad news: hubris in the form of his own stupid crystal joints, but he'll get to those after.]

[Paul takes Palamedes' hand when it's offered, slightly awkward in his grip and his expression as he rises. His knees crackle like those of someone much older, a distraction he welcomes from the thoughts that come trailing what Palamedes said (the right questions, indeed; he should be careful what he wishes for). The air returns to its salt-wind chill, the desert banished back where it belongs.]

I'll see you soon.

[Paul echoes the phrase, trying it out, and then the First and Palamedes are gone, and Paul stands alone in a cramped room with his hand pressed to a heavy wreath of bone.

He doesn't go far after sending a message to Palamedes with directions, but he does prepare for a guest. When Palamedes arrives, a desert mouse will bound from the front step of the crooked house Paul has taken temporary shelter in, and she'll guide him up narrow stairs to a half-cracked door from which the smell of black tea and spice-scented incense pours along with firelight. There he'll find Paul in a sleeveless white undershirt and the same black pants he was wearing before sitting in one of two dust-cloth covered loveseats by a narrow fireplace, a dark blanket draped over his shoulders concealing most of his arms.

The wide desk running along the wall across the fireplace has been cleared, cleaned, and pulled out enough to work around on all sides. On the small table next to Paul, there's an ancient teapot with two wooden mugs next to it. There are no bones or antlers in this room; if Palamedes looks for their signature, he'll find them one door down the hall.]

May I ask you about the Sixth? [It's not exactly 'hello, it's good to see you made it'; that's more implied by his nod at the teapot and his faint greeting smile.] Do you ever go outside there? Not generally. You specifically.

[The best way to not think about something is to think of something else, and it's better to turn himself outward again. There's enough morbidity here as it is.]

[Ungenerously, Palamedes thinks Paul's crooked house is a pitiful sight upon first approach. He and Camilla have been hunkered down in a windowless box for nostalgia and habit's sake, and at least Paul's choice of residence isn't a deeply haunted mansion covered in gargoyles, but — well. It's an idle thought first formed out front, and then again on the stairs. At least Canaan House had once been opulent.

He's come prepared, supplies in the satchel he's been wearing over his Sixth robe and under the complementary Sleeper cloak. It took almost no time at all to gather the things he assumes he'll need to do this thing, especially after a quick survey of his right ankle, where a fat crystal has blossomed to life in the time it took to wander Canaan House; Paul's everything is further along, but recalling the observation in the memory...

It will be a process. If Palamedes had his way the removal of crystals would be step one, after he trails the mouse up into Paul's... sitting room; but Paul has set out tea and mugs, so. Palamedes stands in the doorway, one hand idly settling on the cracked door out of habit, what-happened-here, while he looks at the state Paul is in.

Well, it could be worse. Continuing their conversation about their respective homes as if they'd not been interrupted by such a literal scene change bothers him not at all; he lets out a short puff of breath, not quite a laugh.]

Me? God, no. I made Warden at thirteen; my work before and after consumed nearly every waking minute, and a handful of sleeping ones, too.

[Haha. He crosses to sit, rearranging the lump-that-is-satchel under the Sleeper cloak as he does.]

That, and getting the appropriate clearances to open a hatch somewhere for anything other than a construct doing maintenance would take ages. I used to drive people mad, sending so many letters. I always told Cam that the inter-House post would be dead without my help.

[A shrug. Ah, youth! But yeah, that's a no;] We didn't even have windows.

[The house is an eyesore and smells of mold. It's why Paul put in this effort to make it less so, at least in one room, clinging to rules of hospitality in a way he finds vaguely pathetic now that Palamedes is actually here to see it. At least he doesn't say anything about it.

There's a purpose to the table beyond the mugs, at least. Paul shrugs off the blanket, revealing the sheathed knife strapped to his wrist, and he picks the fastening of it apart before he sets it next to the teapot. There's a deliberate telegraphing of motion as he does it, the air of a formal gesture.

Paul imagines a life entombed, and wonders what resource the Sixth has that ties its people to such a hostile world. What do they have in their archives? (The intensity of Palamedes' preparation, on the other hand, only registers as something that makes sense, another point of near-familiarity. How else do you produce a human being?)]

No windows, but you talk to other Houses enough to have a postal system. [A better topic. He rubs at his bruise-circled wrist, then very carefully lifts the teapot to pour into Palamedes' mug.] I suppose there are trade-offs for everything. But still - it must have been a transition.

[Which Palamedes may not want to discuss, so Paul moves on, his tone matter-of-fact as he sets down the teapot and still doesn't quite meet Palamedes' eyes:] Where do you want to start? I thought the desk could be a workspace, but I'm not sure what your approach is.

[Or, the actual reason Palamedes is here, and the reason Paul is uncomfortable in his skin in both a literal and emotional sense. Without the concealing blanket, the extent of his self-neglect shows in the deep bruising that flares in his hands, at his wrists, in his elbows, and then blossoms into wing-like striations on his shoulders. He crackled as he poured the tea. Maybe the house suits him better than he wants it to, temporary as it is.]

[Palamedes very nearly objects and moves to make Paul put down the mug, good God, he can pour his own tea, he can hear crackling — but he figures that the display has a purpose, and who is he to deny Paul what dignity he can muster? He remembers the way Paul had spoken of what's happened to his joints in the tone of someone talking about personal failure, so; Paul can pour tea. In the meantime, Palamedes tugs at his outer cloak, so he might free this satchel and set its contents down like Paul's knife. He doesn't understand the gesture, merely that it is one - that's enough.]

A — what, seeing all that sky, all the time? The ocean was worse.

[Hah; it's been strange but not, say, particularly undoing to be away from the Sixth for so long. He's deftly handling it, the way he deftly handles the flap of his satchel and begins removing what he's deemed the relevant medical supplies: scalpels (a few, in case), a small towel (on which he piles the rest), a pair of scissors, some tiny plastic bags (they are, in fact, snack size! but who's keeping track). He notably lacks anything like a roll of bandage, but: necromancy. That one is the easy part.

As an afterthought he picks up the mug and sips his tea, giving it an appreciative hum, compliments before he has to do something unpleasant with scalpels to several parts of Paul.]

The desk is fine. The rest depends on you; I'd proceed under the assumption that the smaller ones will be the easiest to remove, and therefore the most painful. That said, those would most likely be in the hands, naturally more delicate than the shoulder, for example.

[Personally, he's endlessly thankful that nothing horrid has bloomed into his own hands; that would make this, ah, even more difficult. But he means it: it's Paul's choice which joint to start on. He sips the tea again in the meantime, giving him a moment to think it over.]

[It does take a moment, maybe even a few. Watching Palamedes unpack his bag unsettles him not so much because of fear of pain or injury (although both are present), but because it means that this is actually happening. Paul could frame it as a mutual favor, in letting Palamedes make a medical specimen of him, but that's a weak rationalization and he knows it.

He's going to let someone he met less than a month ago cut into him. It shouldn't mean anything - Paul is fairly sure Palamedes could have killed him from the doorway, if not the street, if he wanted to - and he reminds himself of that, which helps. So does the hummed approval of the tea, in an entirely different direction. Paul looks at the scalpels with careful control, and answers:]

The hands. We may as well do them here, move to the desk for the larger joints. Don't be concerned about any mess.

[Still considering Palamedes' set of tools, he puts his left hand palm down on the table between them, fingers loosely spread.

There's no point in halfway trusting Palamedes about this, which is why Paul isn't flooding him with questions about the particulars (like the lack of anything to close him up with, for one). He thinks about the journal, about the room with papered walls and two sets of handwriting, about the covered bowl of ashes, and his shoulders ease as he settles into readiness.]

You can start when you're ready.

[Paul brings his gaze up and nods, as calm as he's going to manage to be, which is more than he expected.]

And thank you.

Edited 2022-01-02 01:23 (UTC)

[Ah, bold, to start with the hands. Palamedes nods, nudging Paul's hand first to slide the towel under it; he is going to worry about the mess, actually, because this isn't his... hovel. Not that he'd bleed all over the Sixth bunker like some kind of berserk soda machine, but it's the principle of the thing — and, although he carefully won't put the thought to words in case that lessens the effect, it's to create a more reassuring atmosphere.

It's a towel. He realizes this. But a little order while he does this dangerous and precise thing to Paul's hands can't go amiss, so: it's a towel, and it's very important.]

You said you can control your — responses, more or less, right? But that's likely going to aggravate this further if you do it right now, so please resist the temptation. I won't lie: it's going to hurt.

[More than crystals buried in the joints? That remains to be seen. He pauses; it's easy enough for his necromancy to hold someone still, which should help, but as this is not a very pressing emergency... This time, he will Actually Ask. (Sorry, Gideon, all those months ago.)]

If you're okay with it, I know a similar trick, but you'd have to focus pretty intently on letting it happen without fighting back.

[Cool. He has selected a scalpel, and rubs his thumb over what looks like the most swollen joint in Paul's fingers, to get a better mental picture of where the flesh ends and crystal begins. He glances up at Paul's face — perhaps they should try one without tricks first, see how that goes? He'd said for Palamedes to start when ready, so very deliberately he presses scalpel into skin for the first incision.

Pros: he's pretty familiar with how the insides of bodies work.

Cons: it is a goddamn scalpel and no one in the Nine Houses believes in anesthetic.]

[Speaking of not controlling responses: Paul tenses slightly at the idea of doing this without mitigation, a mixture of hesitation and reflexive wariness that's nearly fear. But: there's the towel under his palm, soft whorls of thread under his fingertips, and recognizing that he's being comforted doesn't mean it doesn't work. So he nods his agreement, his still slightly widened eyes meeting Palamedes' so he'll be assured Paul is sincere.]

Not reacting is one of the first things I learned. [He steadies himself, feet flat but not braced against the floor.] What kind of trick is it?

[He's apparently never going to not be asking about magic, even in the face of trying to calm his nerves without actually calming them.

True to his word, when the scalpel bites into his skin Paul keeps his hand still. His face is a different story, his lips thinning into a pale line as he allows a carefully throttled exhale through his nose. On an abstracted level of thought, Paul mildly regrets not going through with the box test a second time after all, for the practice. His blood is red and unremarkable, no moonlight in this room to illuminate it.]

...that could have been worse.

[Paul looks up and half-smiles in a way that's almost sheepish in its relief. Over-anticipation is as much a trap as under-preparation. The uncomfortable possibility of flinching in front of Palamedes had been worse than the certainty of the cut, he realizes in the clarity of pain, and he didn't.]

You can keep going. Is dissection a thing all necromancers learn, or a specialization?

[Hmm — yes, it could have been worse. Palamedes is impressed with Paul's level of control; that's definitely a well-honed skill, and he wonders idly exactly what kind of training results in this. He remembers Paul in the rain, there-but-not — somehow, this feels like the opposite kind of control, to be so present in the moment that the most minuscule twitch can be restrained.

He dabs at the cut with a wrinkle of the towel, returning Paul's sheepish relief with a brief small smile of his own.]

I'll take those in order, I suppose — the trick is making you hold still. It only hurts if you try to fight me, unless I catch you before you can blink. Then I assume it sucks royally.

[Then the perils of dry eye become an issue, that is, but never mind. He shifts the scalpel away from Paul's finger to, as delicately as one can perform a dissection, pull the two sides of the incision away from each other. Enough to see the seam between crystal and bone, which — hmm. He's going to have to wedge a scalpel in there to pry it off, isn't he.

In a minute.]

Necromancers learn the basics of anatomy, and after that it depends on the House. The Ninth specializes in bones, for example, but I could tell you a story or two about desperately trying to take Bone Morph Resonances for the credits.

[Like a super cool kid, that Palamedes and his exams. He shifts the scalpel again: it's time to wedge and pry.]

You're doing well, [he says first, softer; then:] But really hold still for the next few minutes.

let me look at the sun | open

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uhh i guess cw: vague allusions to cremation

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this can wrap shortly?? :thinking: at last

yeah whenever you would like, this or the next if you want to? thank you for this!