deercountry | let me look at the sun

[Under almost any other circumstances, Paul thinks, he would be alarmed - and then he wonders if Lazarus can sense that as well, a rill of fascination underlying both ideas. The moonlight refracts in his dark green eyes as he leans forward, hands delicately tented on the ground.]

Yes, I did. You can feel that? [He sees the disorientation, and on experimental impulse conjures a memory of candied ginger, drawing up as much detail as he can muster, which is a remarkable amount.] The deep water. Do you see anything in it?

[The way Paul's thoughts are coming together is like intricate whirring clockwork mechanisms rapidly colliding and pulling apart in new configurations, all of them focused intently on the puzzle at hand. There's remarkably little concern for anything else.]

[L hesitates. He thinks of his true feelings and thoughts, not even his secrets, the way he thinks of his teeth: riddled and fraught from pernicious influences and not to be extracted except through violent force or great and dire need.

The desire to understand, he thinks, does in fact qualify as dire need. They both feel it, don't they? The shallow breath he was holding exhales.]

I don't know what else to call it.

[It's definitely a sensation, affecting him physically. That drop in the pit of his stomach was real, the dizziness has him glad that they're close to the ground already. And it's saying something, he thinks, because he is neither squeamish or particularly prone to fainting or vertigo.

He closes his overlarge eyes, thinking.]

I did. Not clearly, but there was a dark shape. Movement, clicks and pops...

[His fingers curl, only to snap outward a moment later swiftly and simultaneously.]

I felt them in my chest, more than heard them.

[Relating this feels deeply and uncomfortably personal in a way he can't explain. He might be able to later, once his own labyrinthine mind finds a still place and his omen finally appears to him. For now, who says this isn't relevant to what Paul wants to know?]

Did you?

[Seeing the additional discomfort that he's causing is enough to make Paul hesitate, but not enough to make him stop. It does remind him that Lazarus is a person, which reminds him in turn that he is one too.

He tempers himself, moderates his tone, eases back. There's less of an effort to make it seem anything but calculated than there usually would be. Why bother?]

I don't know what I saw.

[Another image: a massive, roiling shape illuminated only suggested in vague bursts by the bio-luminescent life it crushes on its path towards the surface.]

The Pthumerian patron of the sea, Mariana, she's also the patron of fate. [Lazarus needs more information to work with, he decides, and Paul will gladly feed it to him.] There's a connection, but I haven't worked it out yet.

[For all his oddness and uncanniness, L would benefit from more people recalling that he is fully (and merely) a human being. It can only get truer, the further outside of his own domain he finds himself, his wide eyes both all-knowing and hopelessly bewildered.]

You were chosen by Mariana, no?

[The longer he's adjacent to Paul's mind, the more certain things feel greater than plausible, if less than certain truth. He'd stake an 80 percent chance, though, which is why his question sounds more like a statement.

Now he does hear the beast; the ancient, groaning creak of bones as its bulk moves through the deep?]

If you believe in predetermination, or... at the very least, risk...

[His voice is quiet and tense. He's out of breath, but can't seem to expand his rib cage to draw in much-needed oxygen.]

...I would think that you're receiving a warning.

[The crushing pressure of knowing, that's what Paul recognizes in Lazarus, like a crooked mirror. Perhaps that's why he stays fascinated, mesmerized; perhaps he's the mouse after all.

He says Mariana's name and Paul doesn't need to say a word to betray himself. It's in his face as much as his thoughts that Lazarus has hit the mark, and then - ]

Of what? [A bleak and softly asked question, one with no hope of a real answer.] What am I supposed to see?

[I'm right, then.

He's usually right, at least about other people. It's just so very rare for them to like it much; it makes him uncomfortable to be around, but Paul remains, at least for now.

The weight gets heavier every moment that passes. L's back is curved forward as though under the icy pressure of leagues.]

I'm not Mariana.

[Or Cassandra.]

I can't know fate, but... if we weren't here... I'd wager that it was a metaphor for something that you've suppressed or ignored for too long that's coming to collect its due. Given that we're here... it could well be literal.

[And so much bigger, than the shape in his dreams of locked knowledge just out of reach.]

I did wonder.

[Paul knows she walks in many shapes, and a disheveled pale stranger tying nooses and reading fortunes in the night surely could be one of them. But he doesn't taste the bitterness of citrus and salt, and somehow, he thinks he would know.

So Lazarus is only himself, a mind bending under the unwelcome gift of awareness. Paul wonders what would come out of the fault lines, if Lazarus broke under that weight, and of all the thoughts it's that one that finally, mercifully catches him on its hook.]

It could be anything. It could be nothing. [He is a human being. He is Paul Atreides, son of Leto Atreides, son of Jessica. He is a human being and he will behave as a human being.] It's not your burden to carry. Breathe in for a count of five, breathe out for a count of seven.

[Something of the fanatic light leaves him, his expression resigned. He looks both younger and older than he is, an ancient and exhausted child.]

[The weight and pressure are crushing him slowly. He's tapped into something he shouldn't have by initiating this connection, he realizes as his head starts to droop and his fingers grasp the dirt and twigs beneath his palms, trying to keep his elbows from buckling under him and perhaps putting one of his eyes out with that Mourning on the ground in front of him.

He almost doesn't hear Paul, because the roar of water is in his ears and behind his eyes, the salt burning his throat, and he has to brace against it longer, find more, understand--

The roar fades. Paul's voice grows clearer and louder, because something has been severed, someone has been released. A thick, warm sensation on his face startles him, and a hand reaches up to wipe slugs or worms away from his eyes and nose. His dirty fingertips come away smeared in muddied silver.

Blood and earth streaking his face, he inhales, coughs, tries again. He doesn't have the patience for a longer exhale.]

I have to go to Cassandra. Tonight if possible.

[If he can stand to get there, or at least to a stop on the lamp friend network.]

If the dreams at the stone are as you said, more could be revealed, now that I've seen it, too.

[If he must collapse and pass out from spent effort, why not capitalize on a burgeoning talent? Being tired, he reasons, means that he's just getting started.]

Edited 2022-01-07 06:02 (UTC)

You're bleeding.

[Paul doesn't raise his voice, but his alarm is clear anyway. He plunges back into his satchel and produces a faded but clean floral patterned towel from his bag. He's seen something like this before when magic was used, but it wasn't this visceral, or that much. Guilt floods the hollow that prophecy left behind.]

You're not going tonight. It takes time to learn how to control this. [He draws out a canteen and pours water on the towel, then shifts forward, rising on his knees and moving within reach of Lazarus.] And you shouldn't be doing this outside in the cold. Here, let me -

[Paul leans in to either clean Lazarus' face for him, or to hand him the towel to do it himself, if he prefers Paul not be so close. There's no self-consciousness in him about it, or pity - mentats are prone to exhaustion, and they need to be taken care of as the valuable things they are.]

[L allows it with a sort of dazed acceptance that is automatic for him. His is a mind that flies, encased in a body that crawls. The disconnect between the two can be vast, and he forgets himself in pursuit of the Unanswered Question, the only mistress he cares to covet. Over the course of a career not unlike a mentat in Paul's world, he's been carried to bed when sleep is possible, fed caffeine and sugar and even stronger stimulants when it isn't, and slipped tranquilizers when his answers give way to hallucinations born of an insomniac's unsustainable deprivation.

His mind might fly on, confused at the mess below, wondering how it got that bad down there on the ground where humans had to live with their mistakes. There was always a cleanup crew, back home, a handler to sweep the glass or stitch the wounds or gag the rambling madman. L doesn't even reach for the towel; this is familiar, even welcome.]

How much time?

[The dark hollows under his eyes make them look larger and hungrier. His tone is tugged by impatience and anxiety.]

Time is a luxury, and not assured.

[Unless it can be bought with some sort of sacrifice, and L is clearly no stranger to that.]

Edited (last one sorry it's my bedtime) 2022-01-07 07:06 (UTC)

[Paul is made gentle by regret, wiping away blood and other mess as carefully as if he were oiling a blade. The question of time makes his mouth quirk in a not-smile, the urgency behind it familiar.]

It varies. I'm sure you'll pick it up quickly. [Paul doesn't think Lazarus would settle for any less.] You'll have to take the risk of not trying to learn it all in one night.

[The other man cleaned up, Paul begins packing to go. The assorted antlers and bones go back into the bag, the incense kit is disassembled and the remaining burning stub thrust upright into the dirt. He doesn't touch the Winter Mourning, instead putting the wet, silver-stained towel over it - if he had his way he'd just leave it, but Lazarus might want to keep it, and Paul has decided he's in no condition to fling himself into a memory from here. He thinks the towel will be enough buffer; either way, he slings the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and stands up, extending a hand down to Lazarus.]

Come on. Let's get you back to where you're staying. It's not safe here.

[If anyone can learn with necessary speed, it's always been L. Limits don't exist when he's pressed... until, of course, they do, like the one he's just smashed into.]

Right... whatever's coming isn't on top of you, so... feasibly, there's a margin of error.

[Given the tightrope margins he's used to working inside of, that's hardly reassuring.

His hands are filthy. He takes the cloth, using it to give his palms and fingers at least a cursory brush-off before handing it back to Paul for cover his Mourning with.

They had quite the adventure, even without it. He's careful not to let his skin brush the antlers as he lifts it between a thumb and two spindly fingers. He handles things that way habitually, Paul will learn, as though determined not to leave more fingerprints than he absolutely must.

The antlers have a tremor to them, just like his hand. Unsteady, he's glad for Paul's hand, accepting the help and rising to his feet. He doesn't need to be told that it's not safe; it was a fey and exciting risk before, it's absolutely stupid now.]

I'm staying in Cellar Door for the next few days. I'm trying to get a job as a Night Walker.

[If it sounds like an odd choice for the off-putting pale man, Paul would not be the first one to think so.]

I think there's a lamp friend, maybe... a quarter of a kilometer away, or so. It's back west; that's where I came from.

[His ankles feel a bit like jelly, but he can walk in his typical shuffling hunch. The scuff of his feet help mask the occasional stumble as he starts off that direction.]

[What gives Paul the most pause, even beyond the suggestion that Lazarus will be a Night Walker (an idea that Paul thinks means Lazarus may be interpreting the profession's name overly literally), is the way that Lazarus' words seem to indicate that he considers himself involved in Paul's vision now. It's not an entirely comfortable thought, and the thoughts that follow after it about how to manage the situation are even less so. He hopes Lazarus doesn't pick up on those particular images as he turns away from the edges of knives.

Well, Paul already had no intention of losing track of him. What's one more reason to pay attention to where Lazarus ends up? Paul sticks close as the other man sets off unsteadily, half-sure he's going to have to catch him at some point. He reminds Paul of both puppet and puppeteer, as if the will of his mind is ever so slightly decoupled from his body.]

I'd appreciate it if you kept this between us. [Words that could be said lightly, but not so here, although still more caution than threat.] Night Walkers have a responsibility towards the secrets they learn.

[It's an unanswered question, one with a time limit that might bring calamity onto the head of someone with many more unanswered questions inside of that head. Reason enough for L to involve himself, even if he struggles to connect, or feel a protective, brotherly, or friendly instinct. If parts of him are broken or dead, others have rewired, picked up the slack, given the functional appearance of certain matters, or even feelings adjacent to what he thinks he's supposed to feel.

His brain runs, and flies, so he's not obsessed with fixing it. It's discerned its own way to be exceptional, much like he suspects Paul's has.

He's aware of the boy's closeness, but it doesn't perturb him. It tracks with the care Paul had demonstrated in cleaning his face of blood after their telepathic link overtaxed him. Little point in wiping away blood, just to create a sacrifice to some forest beast waiting for a lone Sleeper with a fumbling gait.]

Hm?

[He stops mid-shuffle, glancing back over his shoulder. Dark grey eyes meet green ones, and there's a solemn knit in his brow.]

I have no one to tell, nor anyone to tell. I keep to myself, and I keep my secrets, however they were acquired.

[My secrets; it's his, now, right along with being Paul's. He's deliberate in his claim.]

To me, sharing one has always felt like disappearing, or at least becoming less whole. Doesn't everyone want to be whole?

[There's something wistful under his placid tone. However not-obsessed he might be, with fixing what runs and flies, a child even younger than Paul is always kicking at a door back there in dark, sullen fury, because what if, what if...]

You don't really know me yet, so... trust desire, where it isn't logical to trust honor.

Edited 2022-01-08 06:58 (UTC)

[Paul stands in place and looks at Lazarus with the incisiveness of the scalpel, dissecting his words and his expressions as the man delivers his assurance. What he sees satisfies him, and his mouth curves slightly upwards as he nods. His gaze should be cool, calculating, and it largely is - but Lazarus' rhetorical question about wholeness calls a mirroring longing to his eyes for an instant.

Doesn't everyone?]

I will.

[Lazarus' answer wouldn't reassure most people, Paul thinks, but most people live lives of conditioned reactivity and emotional response. They live in worlds they imagine, and they find the truth offensive. Lazarus perceives the truth and speaks it, and so of course, in addition to Paul judging his words sincere, he also knows that no one would believe Lazarus over him anyway. People prefer liars.

(Or maybe he's making an excuse to himself to not have to ensnare, or to threaten. He can allow for that too. Maybe the more calculated and cold his reasoning for acceptance is, the more he can find the thin silver of solace in being, finally, seen.)]

You're an interesting man, Lazarus Sauveterre. [He gestures for them to continue their walk, a coaxing reminder to go with the compliment.] I haven't met anyone quite like you in some time.

I think you'll do well for yourself here.

[Usually, L is not on the receiving end of such intense scrutiny. So, this is how it feels. He, too, has been seen, and is deeply ambivalent about what it means. If he's interesting, after all, it means he's failed in some regard. It means he's on someone's radar, for better or worse, and he always assumes "worse" when he's made himself memorable with a misstep.

He'll evaluate the tradeoff later, decide whether or not it was worth it. For now, he addresses the moments as they come, the positive outcomes that have already occurred and potential future benefits. He is, after all, no longer secure enough in his seclusion that he can forego the complications of alliances, simply contracting them when necessary.

This was always Light's advantage. L lacks Light's glibness and ability to endear himself to others with a sweet set of falsehoods; while L is also a liar, he employs his untruths as necessary evils, weapons to entrap his targets. Paradoxically, he is devoted to the truth and revealing it; the rare person who is not off-put by his moments of piercing honesty would probably have listened to the Cassandra of legend, and so.]

Thank you.

[Though his eyes are wary, his mouth and mind, at least, know how to simply accept an intended compliment.

He's done well for himself before. Just because it's different doesn't guarantee a failure, and while Paul couldn't know his history, he's managed to remind L of something important and encouraging.]

Do you? Do well for yourself here, I mean.

[He asks as they continue on their way, the twinkling of the lamp point visible in the distance.]

You seemed to know about the duties of Night Walkers when I mentioned it, and take them to heart. You're a Paleblood, as many of them happen to be; is that your profession, or has it been in the past?

Mine? Oh, no. I haven't decided what I'll do, yet. But yes. I do well enough.

[By the criteria Paul chooses to judge himself by, at least. In terms of knowledge acquired and environmental patterns learned, he's doing well. If he chose to judge himself on the amount of sleep he gets, or how fixed his address is, it would be another thing. But those aren't things he needs.

Meanwhile, he acknowledged Lazarus' thanks with a slight nod, simplicity for simplicity. He appreciates the clarity that seems to be forming between them.]

I do admire the profession. It takes skill to listen well, and to provide comfort, however you choose to do so.

[Perhaps Lazarus will appeal to a specific set of clients. Everyone, after all, has tastes.]

[L's lived a life that was entirely defined by the work he did, to the point where he scarcely remembers what came before. It's dreamlike, almost more sensations and impressions, much like his time as a squid between the life in Trench and the one he left in a body bag.

In short, the process of deciding what one will "do" is interesting to him, when it's a decision based on how well someone knows himself, and not lightning in a bottle that struck at just the right time and place.]

My understanding is that Palebloods excel at it.

[His knowledge of himself outside of the role he knows is still in its larval stage, in ways. His omen hasn't even emerged. He's picked a direction based on what he does know, the first trial of a new deductive process that will also wield no shortage of errors.]

Is there a job in Trench that is analogous to what you did where you came from, even loosely?

[Paul actually laughs at that, wryly, though he keeps it soft, especially as they move farther away from the incense. He's keeping a watch on their surroundings, and he's seen no sign of beasts near, but caution is a habit.]

No. Not at all.

[The idea of deciding what to do with himself was strange for Paul too. What he would do was what he was, a ducal heir, the future of House Atreides. Nothing has changed that. He won't let anything change that. But here - sometimes he wonders if he can call himself Atreides at all. But then, who does that leave him?]

I'd like to think blood type matters less than personal inclination and aptitude. What did you do, before you came?

[Even much less keen minds than Lazarus' would notice Paul's omission of his own answer for that.]

[L holds the blood-spattered cloth, with the winter mourning within, close to his chest as they walk. The cold, now, is actually starting to bite through him, though like most pain and discomfort, he can ignore it for quite some time.]

Is that so?

[A pause, after Paul tries to turn this around on him. It seems they both rely on the desire most people have to talk about themselves, among other similarities.]

Not much at all is analogous to what I did. It might take some time to explain.

[With any luck, the vague answer has bought him some time.]

And you?

[Worth a shot.]

Fair enough.

[Paul tips his head back and looks up at the stars appearing through the veil of clouds, sounding only as dismayed as any player of games whose gambit was spotted in a casual match.]

It doesn't matter here. I was a duke's son, so what I did was learn.

[There are times where showing true emotion is appropriate. It would be stranger for Paul not to sound wistful, so he allows it into his tone.]

Sometimes I wonder if it's still in this sky, our planet.

[L's own gaze travels skyward, though with the lackluster ennui of someone who knows he won't recognize anything they see from his own world.]

I've been studying Trench's star charts. Nothing resembles Earth's constellations... I suppose that you've discovered the same, given your predilection for learning.

This planet is supposed to be a preserve. No human life, by Imperial Decree, although whether or not the planet they mean is the original Earth, or a dopple, I'm not sure.

[Paul shrugs, not particularly interested. Earth is an ancient story, long eclipsed by other worlds. Of all the mysteries here, it's one of the most academic to him.]

It wouldn't be the same planet, but I suppose we'll never know, unless a ship comes down from the sky. So. What did you do?

[L mulls that over, briefly. He's aware that Paul is not the only Sleeper in Trench who hails from a planet that is not Earth; he also knows that there's only so far a line of questioning can improve his understanding of one, especially considering any Earth in Paul's world could well be distinct entirely from the one in L's.

It's almost more practical, he thinks, to consider all of their respective situations as different dimensions, each with their own timelines and rules. More practical, insofar as the existential crisis isn't paralyzing.

One use, at least, is it makes some things seem so trivial in comparison. So small.]

I looked at what happened after, and used it to figure out what came before... then used those pieces to deduce what was likely to happen next. There was no magic involved, just... usually someone else's oversight or miscalculation, whether they'd lost something important, or tried to get away with something unforgivable.

[It's a long-winded way to say...]

I solved puzzles. I sat in a room all day, and solved puzzles.

[He knew it. Paul is not smug, but he is satisfied to have been so close in his approximation. Of course, it won't be the same thing, but if Paul had to describe a mentat, he could do much worse than that. And the thought pulls him away from other, more personal ones.]

You've never heard of anything called a mentat before, have you? [Rhetorical, but mildly triumphant.] If only they had the school here. You'd fit in.

[He does briefly think of their twisted brethren, but for all Lazarus' bentness, he doesn't seem to be broken. There is a meaningful distinction to be made between strange and aberrant, which does remind him to add:]

It's a respected profession.

let me look at the sun | open

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