let me look at the sun | open

[terriblepurpose]

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

Comments

[terriblepurpose]

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.]

[megatheorem]

[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.

[terriblepurpose]

[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.

[megatheorem]

[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.]

[terriblepurpose]

[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.]

[megatheorem]

[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.

[terriblepurpose]

[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.]

[megatheorem]

[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.]

[terriblepurpose]

[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.

[megatheorem]

[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.]

[terriblepurpose]

[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?

[megatheorem]

[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.

[terriblepurpose]

[The next few minutes are long. The nerves being activated are ones not meant to be exposed and stimulated like this, the sensation of pressure on bone intrinsically wrong, and the brutal dumb instinct of self-preservation telling him to pull away must be fought constantly. He tries not to think about the soft noise he makes at the back of his throat when the first crystal is coaxed free, something between a whimper and a whine. He's pale when it's done, but he has kept himself still.

Paradoxical thoughts run through him; he wants to make a joke about poison needles, he wants to ask to stop, he wants to linger over the tiny fragment of calcified magic he's grown in his own body like a miracle. Instead, he closes his eyes, and very carefully, around the tightness in his throat, he says:]

I think you should do the trick. And tell me about the bone morph resonances. Or anything you want. Please.

[He knows he could make himself hold still through the rest, if he could do it once, and knowing that is a pitch-dark thing, an isolating, desolate thought. He has been holding himself together so much.

When Palamedes does it for him instead, there's no fighting. Paul all but collapses into the necromantic hold, and with his eyes closed he doesn't have to search Palamedes' face to see what he thinks of that. His nervous system answers to Palamedes' control with the responsiveness of a finely honed tool, and Paul can focus on syncing respiration and heart rate to a steady calibrated rhythm.

It reminds him of his mother's Voice, and he returns to that when he needs to in the many long minutes that follow. After a while, pain of this kind blurs, even without the benefit of pumping more compensatory hormones into the bloodstream, and Paul inhabits the non-space that allows in his mind as Palamedes manipulates, maneuvers, cuts, and closes.

When it's over, it takes a minute to realign with control of his own limbs. Paul eventually brings his hands under his shoulders and pushes himself up from where he lay face down on the desk, tentatively sliding his feet back to the floor. He does tremble then, blinking open bleary eyes and working his jaw.]

That was [he flexes his hands, and despite the fact this room smells like an abattoir and he looks like its bloody butcher even with Palamedes' carefulness, Paul's smile is like unexpected winter sunlight] incredible. Two nervous systems at the same time? The Tleilaxu would kill to get their hands on you, I can't believe -

[Ah, it's mild delirium. Paul leans heavily against the desk and shivers, but the absence of pain is an intoxicant in itself.]

Thank you. I should start with th- are you all right? Are you tired? You should sit, please.

[megatheorem]

[The Trick (tm) is easy, and once he reminds himself that performing the work and being careful with these parts a live person are not mutually exclusive, so is the remainder of the removal. Having the necromantic hold to focus on in the background serves as a kind of anchor, rather than a split of his attention; it's a reference point in the — admittedly — messy rest of the thing. A steady trickle of thanergy here, the precise movement of his hands there, a murmured story or several about bone morph resonances — and then it's done.

At some point he'd fallen into the kind of fugue state one can only be in when so entirely focused on the work, and placing the final crystal down to pile gently with the rest brings him out of the rhythmic pattern of it; he blinks back to now, watching Paul while he wipes his hands on the last semi-clean corner of the towel. It's hardly actually clean, but never mind it now.]

The who? It isn't hard — [don't get an ego, Cam's voice helpfully pipes in from so many relevant memories, aha-] Well, I already live in one of them.

[He makes a face, a smile that isn't quite sure Paul isn't going to abruptly fall sideways and yet is still endeared by his odd enthusiasm. He moves to cross back to the chairs, pausing a moment to touch Paul's shoulder — careful now, and ah, he wipes an errant smear of blood with his thumb as an afterthought. It makes no tangible difference to how much blood either of them has on himself, but, you know. Habit.

Now, speaking of people who should sit, sir...]

I'm fine. [Well. He's favoring one leg over the other as he turns to sink into the chair, but he's not as bad as Paul! The bar has been set. Give it a few minutes, because he's not going to let this thing fester, but he's patently exhausted.] You should sit, too. Before you fall over. I only brought one towel, but...

[terriblepurpose]

It's all right. I'm all right. I'll sit.

[Paul leans slightly into the hand brushed against his shoulder without thinking of it, then surges upright to make his way across to the chair as if galvanized by it. He tosses himself into the seat like a coat and fills his mug with cold tea twice, chugging it down enthusiastically. He refills both of their mugs the third time, leans back to sip this round more slowly.

With his thirst refreshed, he can of course continue talking. His knee bounces slightly as he does, as if he's compelled to disperse stored energy.]

Bene Tleilaxu. Flesh crafters, but not like that. I'll tell you another time, I promise. [He shakes his head, nearly giddy sounding. Endorphins and relief are a potent cocktail.] You already live in one of them. Like it's nothing!

I hated that. Not the - [a vague gesturing deskwards] - before that. I let it get away from me, and I should have...

[A nudge of memory from the ice. Paul heaves himself up slightly so he can lean over the side of his chair, reaching down to his satchel leaning against a back leg. He pulls it into his lap and rummages through it, producing a heel end of bread wrapped in wax paper he exchanges for the knife he left out, which goes into the bag instead of back on his wrist.]

...I didn't think there was anyone I could ask.

[megatheorem]

[Oh, look at him go — Palamedes knows this mood, the almost adrenaline surge of getting through a dangerous and frightening thing without real harm. Of course, most of his experience with such a mood has been after exams, but... same difference, ultimately. Necromancer exams are, as a general rule, a little dangerous no matter what.

So: he sinks a touch further into the chair, grateful right now to not be moving, and sips the fresh-not-fresh mug of tea with relish. The exhaustion that settles over him does so with the satisfaction of a job well done, and with a glance over at the sticky pile of crystals on the desk, he allows himself a completely earned surge of pride in the work; he did this thing! He did this thing over and over and he did it well, and Paul's myriad half-formed sentences and elated tea-chugging are compliments he'll gladly take.

Flesh crafters but not like that gets a raised eyebrow, and he remembers "Bene Gesserit" and wonders what the "Bene" is supposed to signify, now that it's shown up twice in Paul's mentions. He'll ask that one later, too.]

Technically, you didn't ask. [Palamedes just made declarations and then turned up, but will he apologize? No, not even a little. He takes a longer gulp of tea, to think.] I couldn't have let you go on like that. Not trying isn't an option I've allowed myself.

[And Paul put in the effort in that memory to help him, which means they cannot be anything less than friends now. Palamedes' personal take on friendship may be more all-or-nothing than most, but it's gone well for him thus far. Why mess with the perfect formula when it works? Silly.

But he knows enough people who just don't ask for help because they are brilliant and stubborn and filled to the brim with pride, and Paul seems to hover around that particular set a lot of the time, so—]

It's not easy. [So he understands the logic, he supposes, even if he doesn't get it.] Well! What I'm saying is you can ask me. Officially and everything. You can ask Cam, too, she won't pry.

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul pushes himself up the back of the chair, still in the process of pulling himself back together, and there's an unguarded sincerity in the way he looks at Palamedes, his eyes wide and softly disbelieving in their wonder.]

Like it's nothing.

[A murmured echo of before, as if offering help is as impressive or more so than taking Paul apart and putting him back together. It is to Paul, which speaks to a certain hypocrisy or hopefulness about him, depending on a person's point of view. He knows that he's been operating outside of the laws of exchange and power, making excuses to extend himself without reciprocation, but it's so much harder to do with people who don't understand the rules, who act as if they don't exist.]

If there is ever anything that I can do for you, for the Sixth, it's yours.

[It's not a vow sworn on ring or by House, or a promise of a debt. There's no ceremony to it. He has been untethered; here is a bind. It's as simple as that. If Palamedes calls, Paul will answer, and a part of the structure of the universe reforms itself. He relaxes back into the chair properly.]

I promise I'm usually more useful than this. [A diversion back towards lighter waters in the self-deprecation there.] And a better host. The bread is for you, if you want it.

[megatheorem]

[It's not a vow or a promise, but it is — something significant. It's telling of Paul's life up to this point that he seems to treat so many things as an exchange of sorts, a deal between players in some grand game that he's been raised to know how to play. Palamedes isn't too sure what to feel about that, conceptually; it sounds very Third, and he doesn't like all the implications he could heap on that, so—

Well. He makes a mental note to not do something about it, specifically, that isn't his business — but to remember it.]

Thanks. I mean it — genuinely, thank you. And for the bread, [which he will take, heedless of how his hands are mostly dried blood smears by appearance; just Nine Houses things.]

I do have something you could help me with, actually. Depending; how closely were you paying attention during all that?

[He waves a piece of bread crust he's torn off at the desk; All That, and he assumes Paul, even while under the knife, will have picked up a thing or two about the method of the work. It is already obvious what he's going to ask, Palamedes thinks, but he still explains:] It's my leg.

[terriblepurpose]

I was supposed to be paying attention?

[Paul says it airily, his eyebrows lifted, and then he smiles softly at his own weak joke.]

Of course. [Both that he was paying attention, and that he'll help.] Let me know when you're ready.

[The limp had been suggestive, but Paul isn't exactly in a position to sit here and judge someone for not being immediately forthcoming about magical joint disease. He's just glad Palamedes trusts him to return the favor, and determined to prove his statement about his usefulness true.

While he waits, he's content to watch Palamedes eat bread, and too unwound to be troubled by feeling that way while they're both soaked in his blood. This is Deer Country. He's getting used to how much of that goes around.]

[megatheorem]

[Palamedes hums around a nibble of bread, amused; yes, this is his kind of joke, continue. And don't focus too hard on how he's probably going to pull this bread apart more than he's going to actually ingest a significant portion of it, that will be enough. He's already thinking about the ankle surgery, or rather, looking over at the desk again—

He may not be avoiding the issue, but he did neglect to bring, say, double the supplies. The scalpels are easy enough to clean, but oh, the towel... Always this damn towel.]

I'm ready if you are. Are you? You gave up a lot of blood. ["Gave up," because of how much of it is in crystal form, aha--] If you're sure, let's do it.

[Where should he put this leg... He sits up with only some effort (he's tired, still, whew) and leans down to wiggle his shoe off. Let him know which piece of furniture he should ruin next in this place.]

[terriblepurpose]

[Those are a few more of the reasonable logistical concerns Paul might have thought through if he hadn't been busy turning himself into a rock garden. He casts around the room and, after some consideration, shifts his chair to the side and forward, ending up at a slight angle to Palamedes.

For a substitute for the towel, Paul delves back into the satchel for gauze, and sets the bag back down on the floor. It's followed by the teapot and the mugs, and Paul pats the empty tabletop for leg placement.]

If I start seeing double, I'll let you know. [Reassurance!] I'm all right to do this. I wouldn't if I wasn't sure.

[That's the kind of risk he'd only take with himself, obviously. Paul centers himself in clear focus once he has Palamedes' limb in front of him for inspection.]

[megatheorem]

[Palamedes nudges his shoe to one side, rolls his sensible grey sock down and his sensible grey pant leg up, and sits back up again to arrange his skinny legs on the table. It's just the one, but it's more comfortable like this; and it's very much obvious where the crystal has formed beneath the skin, apparently very quickly, a splotchy dark mess sticking out of his ankle. He frowns at it like it's merely inconvenient, which it is, to be fair.

But. Everything is blood and more blood here, it's all blood, and from what he's understood of the nature of whatever mysterious magic sludge now creeps around his veins, it doesn't make sense.]

Supposedly, [he says abruptly after a moment of contemplative silence, briefly attempting to bend the ankle and then super not doing that anymore, ow-] whatever's in me now won't manifest until I'm cut open, however that ultimately works.

[Exposure to the air? Anything that sounds less insane than "it just does that"? He is a flesh and bone individual, his necromancy works, and yet the darkblood literature claims it needs to be coaxed into existence with other magic. A fun puzzle box, then, stuck in his leg.

He shrugs. Whatever pops out of him in a few minutes will be very fun to poke at, certainly.]

That said, this is the only one, promise.

[terriblepurpose]

[It hadn't occurred to Paul to think about Palamedes' blood except in terms of how much of it he might lose, and his eyebrows shoot up like startled birds at that little bit of trivia. They settle again as he takes it in, then shakes his head, returning to his examination. At least he's not a vileblood. That would be much more complicated.]

It's funny, the things you take for granted.

[Such as having liquid blood, or that Palamedes' lockjoint would resemble his. It won't take as long, but he's going to have to go deeper than he's entirely happy about, which means being even more careful. He knows Palamedes could repair anything he might botch, but that doesn't mean it wouldn't hurt if he hacks at it, and on top of that, it would be rude.]

This shouldn't be too bad, just the one. I'm going to start. Tell me when you need me to stop.

[Paul picks up the scalpel and puts a steadying hand on Palamedes' shin, then, before he can hesitate, presses the blade down against a seam of skin and crystal.

Of course Palamedes' blood smells like old books.]

this can wrap shortly?? :thinking: at last

[megatheorem]

[There's a level of on brand he aspires to, not that the blood smell is intentional, but if it were. He aspires also to not twitch when he's cut, although he has no qualms at all about making all kinds of noise about it.

First he says,] Wow! Damn — ouch. You're so much steelier than I am.

[Ha ha ow, the fuck. Paul's ability to endure all of these incisions is insane to think about. Palamedes has the robustness of wet paper that bleeds more paper, gritty and dusty, dark as it crumbles out from under the cut.

He shoves some bread in his mouth to silence himself just a little bit, but still leans forward to stare at the operation as Paul goes on. Every movement gets a huff and a pained mutter out of him, unabashed. Yikes... super ouch...]

Let me see — hmm, nope; bad.

[Bad, the way the dark mass embedded in his ankle seems to jiggle, almost, when he pushes at it with all the magic he knows how to use. Of course it's a contradiction: darkblood manifests with magic, and magic makes the crystals worse; making it worse to make it easier to pull it out should work, he hopes?

Perhaps? He grins, like okay, no more interrupting, he's good.]

I'm done messing, I'll stop.

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

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul laughs, which he knows is inappropriate, and squeezes Palamedes' calf in reassurance, which he thinks is.]

You're doing well. I mean it. Most people couldn't tolerate it at all.

[He wasn't sure what to expect when he started, but he suspected, hoped for approximately this. Suspected, because Palamedes' force of will has shone adamantine in moment after moment. Hoped, because he didn't want this to be as bad as it could be. Of course Palamedes makes noise (Paul wouldn't want to tell him about the ways Paul learned not to), but his determination is all the more admirable because this doesn't come readily to him.

He's a stronger person than Paul is. So Paul lets go, and gets back to work with a new calm, steadied again.]

But yes. Don't do that. Even if it did help.

[Paul grips Palamedes' ankle above the joint, promises himself that he's going to find a way to make this up to him, and levers the crystal out in one clean, unbroken piece. It clatters to the table as darkblood dances in the air like spice, and Paul brushes a consoling thumb across Palamedes' skin before he lets go.

It's done. They're both all right. Paul is going to sleep for a day, and then he's going to bring Palamedes every pastry he can talk a baker into giving him.]