Running With My Roots Pulled Up [L Lawliet, OTA]

[hearthebell]

Who: Lazarus Sauveterre (L Lawliet) and open to old and new CR alike
What: Catchall for January! Come see the worst Night Walker in Trench before he gets fired. Watch him publicly shed into a version of himself so hot he could only exist in fan art. Dream with the newly articulated Adonis at the bloodstone in Cassandra, huddle with the handsome hunk at the Snake Den, and aid the temporarily chiseled Chad in fending off Unsnakely. Wildcard option available for those who received all of this, yet still somehow desire more!
When: Flexibly throughout January. Prompt A occurs prior to his shedding, everything else occurs following it (wildcard may occur whenever.)
Where: Respectively, in order of prompts: Cellar Door, Lumenwood, Cassandra, the Snake Den, the Canals in the Willful Machine.

Content Warnings: Most of these are in PROMPT B, aka the Shedding prompt. Skin peeling off, a seizure, blood, bones breaking, vomiting. For PROMPT D at the Snake Den, be aware of some alcohol use and slight intoxication. If anything comes up in tags later I will update these warnings!




A. Working Fingers to the Bone [Cellar Door]

[There was a sort of gentle simplicity in knowing what one would be doing for his entire life from the age of five. It wasn't predetermined, perhaps, but it was preset. A bargain and a promise that he would be protected, and never bored, and therefore that he wouldn't ever want for anything.

He eventually became bored. Chasing it meant he was no longer protected, and at twenty-five years old, that life was no longer his. His new one begs for a source of dopamine that collecting shiny rocks and trading them cannot provide, a lever he can press for the reward of stimulation and a sense of success. The only problem is that none of the primary jobs available to Sleepers are anything he's remotely experienced in. None of them translate to his absolutely unique resume. There was nothing for it but to pick a direction and forge ahead. He was a Paleblood, good at reading people, interested in what they reveal about themselves, a highly intelligent puzzle and problem-solver. Knowing in his heart that he would never truly be anything but a detective, he opted for the title that promised, at least, a never-ending source of intel from the citizens of Trench and other Sleepers, alike. A jackpot, to a man who tended to think about how his service could benefit his whims and appetites, foremost.

You may be at this establishment in Cellar Door to drop off a delivery, or fix something, or to see a Night Walker yourself. Maybe you work here already, or you're job hunting; maybe it's something else entirely. Behind one of the closed doors down the hallway extending from a gently-lit lobby, the atmosphere of tranquil, edifying peace and healing is disrupted by a raised voice, shouting indistinct but very colorful insults. Something smashes and breaks and the door is flung open by a furious middle-aged Trenchie woman. She storms past you on stout legs.

"Never coming back here," she spits at the glum and drooping receptionist on the way out. "I came to see a Night Walker, not a beast!" Trembling, she sniffles, stridently wipes her damp and angry eyes with the sleeve of her dress, and slams the door on her way out.

"Not to worry," the young man behind the receptionist's desk sighs, addressing you. "This is normal. Now. Uh, how can I help you?"]

B. Somebody That Reminded Them of Me [Lumenwood] [CW: Skin peeling off, seizure, bones breaking, vomiting, blood]

[Given his general apathy towards taking care of himself, L seldom comes to Lumenwood, though it would probably benefit him to at least inquire about a vitamin poultice or a sleeping draught. Anyone seeing him today probably understands at a glance why he's finally shown his face in this district; his dry, flaky, peeling face that he has practically scratched raw. Hollow-eyed and haggard, he's at an apothecary shop, scratching at the back of a similarly alarming hand with his uneven, chewed-down nails, speaking in a hurried mumble about how he has incense to trade, he just needs something to keep his skin from drying out further. His omen, an orca whale shrunken to the size of a golden retriever, seems equally agitated, wriggling back and forth beside him before zipping around the room as though trying to shake off parasites making her itch. The suggestion of lotion gets a chuff of frustrated disbelief from her Sleeper, so miserable he hardly believes that it was a serious offer instead of something stronger, medicated or magical. He's halfway through trying to speak a little louder while staying calm, slow and tempered, to ask if anything else at all can be done for his condition, when right in front of you, his back breaks.

His spine is noticeably curved when he stands, taking inches off his height and bending his posture forward. Now, the vertebrae are in pieces under his skin and clothes, and with nothing to support his spinal cord, he's on the ground in seconds, collapsed and seizing. The apothecary shrieks and unties her apron, hurrying out from behind the counter to stuff the corner in his mouth, but the jerking limbs and sickening crunch of bones cracking and sliding around audibly has her clapping a hand to her mouth and sprinting to the shop's washroom past his flailing and thrashing omen to vomit.

The transformation is violent enough that L's shed husk comes away in crepey pieces, trapped under his clothes along with no small amount of sweat and blood. His unconsciousness is a mercy for him, but probably not for you; his torso twists with such force that his shirt tears along the seam in back, and it's possible to see that the bones are aligning and piecing back together, fusing straight and strong. The shirt doesn't actually fit him anymore, too small to button around a toned and well-muscled upper body.; it hangs in tatters, along with pants that are somewhat less useless, now that they actually fit instead of hanging precariously low on his hips. When all those bones were popping and sliding, it happened in his face, too; his jaw is strong and chiseled where it was delicate and childish before, his nose is stately and straight, his undereyes no longer carry the bags of thousands of sleepless nights. When he finally comes to rest in the sticky, stringy mess made by his shedding, panting in torn and bloody garments and spent from the transformation, he is still recognizable as the man who came into this shop... just as if he had won the genetic lottery, instead of lost it.

He wakes blearily and sits, the movement seeming graceful and aristocratic in spite of what just happened while he was unconscious and the discomfort of the bits of husk and grime clinging to his beautiful bone structure and smooth, porcelain skin. "You won't be needing that lotion now, love," the apothecary says, hoarse from her stomach's unheaval but gentle as she unhooks a mop and bucket.

When L speaks, he sounds stunned as the orca omen drifts over, settles her overtaxed head into his lap.]

I don't need anything... nothing hurts.

[He's overcome, drawing his arms closer towards a solid and unfamiliar chest. He doesn't remember the last time that was true.

He startles when he sees you.]

How long have you been here? What happened?

C. Building Castles Out of Snow [Cassandra]

[After he'd gotten cleaned up and acquired some fresh garments that fit his new body well, L had spent hours relearning it, staring at it in the mirror, trying to make it feel as though it wasn't a stranger. He'd gotten his fill, but ultimately failed; it still feels like a stranger, and now, he actually avoids mirrors, looking instead at the sleek and powerful orca omen at his side that has not changed. It stands to reason, therefore, that he hasn't, either, in any real way.

His grooming has not improved, but the habits that pared him to bone, dulled his skin and bent his back take some time to do that level of damage. They're effectively starting over on something strong and healthy; even his fingernails, he'd noticed, were resilient and smooth for possibly the first time ever, and he fumbles as he handles things, at first, as a result. But the most astonishing and drastic change is, no contest, the way he's regarded by women and men alike. He's used to slipping by as a presence that people would rather not engage with, because he is an uncomfortable presence, a cause for pity or distrust or concern. If he's poor, he might want money. If he's crazy, he might try to hurt me. If he's sick, I might catch it. Now he's approached, offered samples from market carts, and smiled at by children who are not immediately yanked away by their mothers.

This, he realizes, must be what it's like for Light Yagami to live his life, every day. Maybe that's the real reason he has been avoiding mirrors.

He's in Cassandra today looking for something real, and true, deeper than the flesh that has turned him into a stranger to himself. He descends the stairs below the Pale Sanctuary, shaggy head bent to hide his features and avoid more attention, his orca omen shrunken to the size of a bracelet so she can swim tiny, tight circles around his wrist. A strong sleeping draught is in his backpack, because he struggles to sleep on demand, but he's here to do just that.

He notices you. Maybe you're acquainted; it'll be easier if you are. If you're not, he relies on the halo effect of his much prettier face, thinking of it as a mask.]

I'm here to dream. Do you know... will a sleeping potion spoil or taint the results?

D. Lowercase Society [Snake Den] [CW: Alcohol use]

[Many factors have contributed to L's appearance at the Snake Den tonight. He'd touched the poster; he has a suit to wear that is somehow as plain and as comfortable as he likes his clothes while still being avant-garde stylish. For the first time in his life he is handsome, and he'd surprised himself by actually wanting to come.

As he's started to get used to his new physique, he's grown to accept it by treating it like a costume. He was born unattractive, and always known and resigned himself to it. He'd heard "ugly" as a child enough times. He hadn't pursued men or women romantically because it would be selfish and irresponsible... but also, maybe just a bit, because a part of him knew he'd be called gross and creepy. He hadn't brushed his hair, or eaten healthily, or slept when he should have, because no one saw him; no one spoke to him in person or called him anything, except for an old man who was already as impressed as he needed to be. What would the point have been?

The tables are crowded. He sits across from you at one of them, drinking something that looks like it's more chocolate than booze. Assuredly, it contains both, because there's an overbright chemical cheer to the way he addresses you.]

Hi!

[Very overbright and chemical. Not a habitual drinker, L is still something of a lightweight even after gaining thirty or so healthy pounds. His omen, a female orca whale, floats beside his chair, turning upside down with a sort of playful laziness.]

Are you enjoying the show? I thought about competing... but no one wants to see someone tie a knot in a cherry stem onstage with their tongue.

[A pause.]

Do you? Want to see it, I mean. You're close enough to see.

[He plucks a pair of maraschino cherries, attached at the stems, out of his drink. He's serious.]

E. Dragging My Roots Through the Snow [Canals, The Willful Machine]

[It's getting exhausting, but handsome as he is now and not as immediately recognizable as himself, L persists in continuing his staggered pattern of moving house every few days to a pre-scouted location. Usually it's an abandoned house or apartment; sometimes, on nights he wants a warm meal and a hot bath prepared by someone else, a hotel. In an attempt to gain at least a tourist's familiarity with all of the districts, he's rotating them right along with his residences, and with his meager belongings in his lap and his orca omen swimming behind him at her full size, he's shivering in the back of a boat that is ferrying him along a canal to his new, and very temporary, accommodations in The Willful Machine.

"Mean ice chunks we get this time of year," comments the boatman, as one of the floats bumps against the small craft's hull.]

Oh...

[L nods, awkward, the small talk coming unnaturally to him.]

Is it ever dangerous?

["The incense helps ward beasties," the boatman says, gnawing the end of his cigar. "Otherwise the current breaks the ice floats up well enough, only thing dangerous is the bloody water if you fill your cup up and drink." He looks over his shoulder to offer L a tobacco-stained grin, but his face quickly drains from rosy to blanched white.

L turns, beginning to stand instinctively when he sees what's spooked the boatman so. He sits again, quickly, when the balance shifts and the boat rocks wildly and his omen breaches and keens a warning. The boatman has leapt out of the craft, desperately swimming through the filthy water in an attempt to escape.

It's clear, at least, why this part of the canal system is not frozen when some of the water splashes overboard. It's actually warm, an effect of the waves of heat rolling off the large Unsnakely leering from the ledge above the boat.]

F. I'm Rootless (WILDCARD)

[I worked so hard on these prompts! My poor tippy-tapping typing fingers...! But your happiness matters more. Throw me a prompt of your own!]

Comments

cw: eugenics

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul has never been anything but beautiful. He knows this about himself the way he knows that he is clever, and fast, and strong. He has his mother's fey bone structure and captivating eyes, his father's dark, waving hair. He's the end point of thousands of years of good breeding, how could he be anything else?

So perhaps it's strange that he's sympathetic to what Lazarus says, having never known anything but that. But then again, he is his mother's son, and he grew up watching the way that she wielded one of the only weapons she was allowed to hold, and the way that weapon was also a chain.]

Then I'm glad you have a friend you can count on.

[His voice is soft as he settles into a cross-legged seat nearby, his back straight, and watches Lazarus assemble his sleeping arrangements. His own omen stirs in his pocket as he keeps watching Lycka circle Lazarus' newly handsome wrist.]

It's usually not permanent. I'm sure you know that. [But if not, now he will.] I'll stay here until you wake. No one will disturb you.

[hearthebell]

[There is a specific way L is used to falling asleep, curled on his side with his knees tucked up against his chest. With his new and untwisted skeleton, it's not nearly as comfortable as myriad other positions. He tends to be overwhelmed by choice when he lies down, ironically keeping him awake longer without magical help.]

Since I've never done this... is it typical for dreamers to be attended? Or am I a special case because I've proven to be accident prone with my blood abilities?

[A pause, before he asks quietly]

Can this be dangerous?

[terriblepurpose]

There's no standard practice. This is how I do it, because yes, it can be.

[Paul wouldn't lie about that even if he could, surrounded by paleblood stones and next to the sheer gravitational force of Lazarus' mind. His tone is truly serious now as he leans closer.]

If I need to, I can wake you. I won't let anything happen.

[It's not a declaration driven by concern, but a determination to excel. Paul doesn't do anything badly if he can help it. But then the loop: he never does anything badly if he can help it, because he does care, deeply.

It doesn't matter who's in front of him here. They're his responsibility, and if nothing else is sacred to Paul, that is.]

[hearthebell]

[Maybe it's the drowsiness that's fast setting in from the draught; maybe the part of him that registers danger has just never functioned properly. Either way, he's undeterred, nothing his acquiescence and stifling a yawn.]

How will you know?

[Mumbled as he sinks back into a bedroll that is surprisingly comfortable.]

Does an attendant watch for nosebleeds, or have a closer connection to the dream?

[terriblepurpose]

If you start seizing, I'm going to give you a sternal rub. If that doesn't work, I carry you up the stairs and try it again.

[Paul is gently matter of fact about that. It won't damage anything, but it hurts like a bastard.]

There are people here who can come in to get you if you're stuck past that. Stop trying to stay awake.

[Unbidden, Paul thinks of the questions he would ask when he didn't want to go to sleep, and marvels at the patience of his parents. Lazarus is no child, but he doesn't seem to have ever given up the inquisitiveness.]

[hearthebell]

[He's being a pain, he realizes. Fighting the very thing he came here to do. His head lolls as he nods.]

I don't think you could carr--

[He drops off mid-sentence, eyes half-closed and engaged in the rapid movement associated with dreams. His omen dissipates, seeming to melt into his skin.

She's with him when he opens his eyes. Usually, this is how it starts, in a dark room with padded walls and no light sources, save a glowing computer in the middle of the floor. He stands, and that's all it takes to notice that he's once more all angles and eyes, familiar, the result of his own hapless design. He glances at the computer, at the tiny, crouching figure, hard at work, sullen and pale.

There are words his tongue forms. They never fall; somehow, every time, it occurs to him to address this little phantom enfant terrible. Every time, something stops him, and today it's no different. He steps past the child, unnoticed, as Lycka glides beside him. The room's only door has a keypad with an ever-changing code. Fortunately, L has known the man who sets it longer than anyone else. Over the years, he's never been unable to figure it out, but it's only since coming to Trench that he's deigned to actually leave once he has.

Yes, that's right. Couldn't have been anything else, really. He pushes it open, unsure what awaits him this time. A row of doors? A tundra, a plunge into fetid brackish water?

A long grey beach, a pale figure barely visible in the distance on the cusp of the storm-troubled horizon. His bare feet sink slightly into the sand, and the wind whips his dark hair away from his face as Lycka circles uncertainly, cutting through the air at the water's edge where the wave's lick the beach and recede.

He's been here before. He knows how this starts and where it may lead, but it's also different. His proximity to the stone makes every shape stand out in harsh relief and every color more vibrant to the point where it strains his eyes. He can't catch everything, but Lycka, hovering and dipping along the shore, resembles a real orca whale more than the smoky silhouette of an omen.

He starts towards the pale figure in the distance, Lycka at his back and never far.]

[terriblepurpose]

[Nothing happens on the other side, at first. As L travels into the corridors of his own mind, Paul sits and observes the breathing of the man he calls Lazarus, counting intervals and letting his thoughts trace more leisurely paths in the closest he ever gets to daydreaming.

L's feet sink into a beach in one world, and in another, Paul feels his blood stir. As L walks, Paul digs the heels of his hands into eyes that flood with moonlight as he doubles over, gagging on sea-water that is not there. He bites his tongue, claws at his face, but he doesn't scream, or call for help as he feels the relentless pull of the ethereal tide. The only noise that comes from him is a fierce, terrified whisper:]

Not here, not here -

[He slumps to the side like a puppet with cut strings, and in the dream, a body breaks the surface of the waves. It drifts lifelessly towards the shore, a slender figure in a pale robe, face down, limbs tugged this way and that by the ocean's toying.]

[hearthebell]

[Though he's walking at a brisk pace, none of L's steps seem to be bringing him any closer to the pale figure down the beach. In one last test, he breaks into a run; no dice. Winded, he stops to catch his breath, wondering if he looks like he's in distress back in the waking world. Hopefully, that sleeping beauty face looks peaceful and tranquil and unconcerning, because he knows there's more to this.

Just a puzzle... The missing piece will make the picture clear. Find the missing piece...

Thunder rumbles out to sea; the wind picks up, carrying with it a new chill. Lycka, who has not left the edge of the shoreline, plunges into the water, slicing through it with a solid and sleek body that is nearly twenty-five feet in length at her full size. Though L does not possess the specific gift of prophecy, his omen, at least, seemed to have a hunch that she'd need to be there, at a very specific time.

She surfaces, exposing her back to the air with Paul's limp body draped just in front of her dorsal fin. As she swims back toward shore, L wades out in the shallows, drenching his baggy blue jeans from that point down, trying to discern what this could mean.

It's not... no, it couldn't be. A person can dream of another (or their drowned corpse) without them actually being present in that dream. He's 99% sure.

95% sure.

As Lycka draws nearer and the water grows choppier, the number plummets. She beaches herself with a lunge toward the sand, and L is quick to pull the body down, lying it flat on its back in the sand next to her.

He glances from the face he recognizes to one of the cetacean's eyes, as if asking for some kind of guidance. He knows, in theory, how to perform CPR; he knows how to do a lot of things in theory, because the computer in that padded room had internet access, after all. ]

Hh...hey!

[Shout-tap-shout. He prods Paul's shoulder sharply with his fingertips, then repeats his exclamation. He feels along Paul's throat for a pulse point; it's difficult to tell, with the crash of the waves and the thunder at his back, whether or not Paul is breathing.]

[terriblepurpose]

[At first, the body doesn't breathe. Its eyes stay closed, face serene, as if asleep. There is a peace to it that goes beyond stillness, the graceful repose of a newly crowned saint. Dark curls cling to skin. The heart beats, but it beats slow and shallow.

Paul's eyes open, and they open, shining silver from edge to edge. He tears air into his lungs as his back arches sharply, his heels and shoulders digging into the sand beneath him as he's flung back into awareness. He collapses as violently as he rose when he breathes out, his hands coming up to press over his eyes.]

Stop it.

[It comes out in a furious hiss as Paul tries to sit up, drawing his knees in at the same time, a motion complicated by the fact he isn't able to use his hands to help him get up while he uses them to try to hold back the flickering, fey light that bleeds around his pressing palms.]

[hearthebell]

[The implications of this whirl through L's thoughts as his fingertips detect a light pulse, but there continues to be no sign of breathing. Paul wasn't even sleeping; he shouldn't have been able to enter this dream, even if the images have been pulled directly from his own visions. Is this just a figment of his subconscious, some test to see if he can save a life if pressed?

No. His subconscious knows the answer to that question; after all, he walks past the child at the computer every single time.

He's about to place uncertain hands at Paul's nose and chin, because the next step, according to what he's ascertained, are rescue breaths... but that turns out not to be necessary. He flinches and recoils at the sudden movement; the white of Lycka's eye is visible as her gaze flicks back anxiously.

L raises his spindly hands palms out, unsure if Paul is telling him to stop, or the silver spilling from his eyes. He approaches the struggling teenager, offering support to help him rise to his desired orientation. There's a very sturdy whale at his side, additionally, who isn't going anywhere, probably for this precise reason.

L's voice is quiet and tense, and he waits until Paul is calmer and steadier before he asks]

How are you here?

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul accepts the assistance blindly, not certain of whose hands they are even as he is; he is here and not, he is present and he is distant, he is tucking himself into a ball on this beach and shaking with the cold of sea-water even as his body lies still on a chill stone floor.

Anchor. Tether. Still. A mantra that does not dispel the visions, but reminds him of how to orient himself when he's in them. He notes the dampness of his clothing, the sound of a voice, the brush of wind across his skin. He is here. Nowhere else.

So: where is here? Paul doesn't uncover his eyes at first, but he hears the sea, and he knows the voice. He remembers where he was.]

I don't know. [He hates to admit it, he'd come up with a misdirection if he could, but the strain of resisting the pull leaves no room for that kind of thinking.] The throne is built, calls for a king.

[There is a silence. Paul drops his hands and stares wildly around him, his eyes luminous, and they sweep across the dream before landing, horrified, on Lazarus.]

How are you here?

[hearthebell]

[Given the unseen chaos of the encounter thus far, L does not expect to be instantly recognized, even if his whale is fairly unique in Trench.

He furrows his brow at the seeming non-sequitur, even if he can guess at its source. Delusions of grandeur, for anyone else; probably reasonable, for a chosen child destined for royal leadership. He brushes it off for now as something spoken in disoriented confusion; drowning and dreams independently contribute to both in different ways.]

There's always a locked room, when I dream. That's the only thing I can count on, and it's the only thing that stays the same; I can't predict what will be there when I leave it.

[Spoken maybe a hair defensively. Though L excels at such matters, it wasn't actually his intent to intrude or violate with the way his blood abilities manifest. Is his nature just that ingrained?]

I'd guess it's because I read it from you in December.

[He has to wonder, now, if every locale he wanders into really belongs to someone else.]

I thought you'd drowned. Are... you alright?

[A more delicate way, perhaps, to address the silver sheen of Paul's eyes. It doesn't seem the same as when L overexerted himself and began to bleed from them in the moonlight.]

[terriblepurpose]

You can't be here.

[Paul is not all right, not at all. He isn't angry. Anger might be more comprehensible than the panic with which he lurches unsteadily to his feet, his gaze turned out to the ocean, and the storm.

(Far away, the figure on the sand might seem to turn as well, but there is a building fog on this shoreline that obscures it.)]

What were you thinking? [Paul whirls on Lazarus and nearly falls over, his balance spun out and away from him.] Why would you - it doesn't matter, go, go back to the room, where is it?

[Paul cannot see a door, or a building, when he looks down the beach to trace Lazarus' footsteps. The mysteries that would intrigue him - Lazarus' return to form, the echo of the dream, and the majesty of Lazarus' glorious omen next to his wizened self - are so much salt on the wind, which begins to pick up with the storm, the waves growing more troubled.

It smells like cinnamon, and Paul curses in a language he doesn't know, a fluid fall of ancient syllables.]

[hearthebell]

[Lycka's form seems to lighten, her outline more smokey than solid as she levitates, looping back, agitated and efficient as she surveys the waves and their ever-increasing violence.]

That's not how it works.

[His voice stretches patience until it breaks, becoming terse and tetchy.]

There's the door into the dream, and the door to leave. They're not the same... the door to leave is hidden, always.

[A man needs a purpose, and some challenge or chaos to rise to. In the absence of those things, it won't be long before he creates his own.

Pity the wretch who ends up in one of L's dreams.]

Pull yourself together... what kind of ruler can't work under pressure? I always find the door, and this time won't be any different.

[terriblepurpose]

[Pull yourself together may as well be a hard slap, the way Paul recoils and then draws himself up in outrage as his head whips towards Lazarus, his chin lifted and nostrils flared over a grimly pressed mouth. But, for all that, he doesn't blink. He hasn't blinked once since he opened his eyes, and forced tears are beginning to collect along his lower eyelashes.

He nearly lashes out in reflex, though he hasn't chosen the method before he stops himself. What kind of ruler, indeed?]

Then start looking.

[An order, not a request. If he wants the Atreides heir, that's who he'll get, and in all the rippling chaos of his mind there is a fragile part of Paul that is furiously, brokenly grateful for that.

He looks back towards the sea, and the sand at his feet stirs and rises to fold into armor, the hilts of knives assembling themselves in his palms before their blades flow into existence. The helmet does not close over his face when it curves around the back of his skull, even that mercy denied him.]

If the wave hits, stay with him.

[That he directs to the circling orca, as if she's his to tell what to do.]

[hearthebell]

[Though L seems, in his everyday life and mundane dealings, affected and fragile, a crisis brings out the steel in him. He doesn't budge in the face of Paul's emotional reaction, his expression as sharp as his tone.]

I have been looking.

[Lycka, hovering and searching above the water, stops abruptly and plunges straight down into the choppy waves. She emerges, rushing back to shore and dropping a corked bottle in her Sleeper's waiting hand.

He uncorks it with his teeth, a slender finger fitting easily inside the narrow bottle neck and removing the rolled up piece of paper within.

Lycka, whether or not she's inclined to obey Paul, remains close as L's eyes scan the paper.]

Usually...

[He raises his voice to be heard over the wind, a roll of thunder that threatens to drown him out.]

They're words that can have multiple common associations. "Smoke" could refer to fire, or a pipe. In this case...

[In this case, clearly, it's not the case. He hands the slip to Paul, crouching in the sand to consider what he's memorized as though there isn't something terrible coming in gusts and waves.]

Valiant, he, native Hal.
Inhale vat. Halt! Naive, vain, lathe.

[terriblepurpose]

[The knife in his hand twists, hooks on a niche in the armor designed for just that purpose, and Paul accepts the slip of paper. The words are blurred by salt-water, and when he tries to disassemble and analyze the letters they dig into him like broken shells.

He looks at Lazarus instead, then his omen, and Paul sees the connections between them as clearly as if they were written on the air. A mind like an apex predator, solving puzzles in a room. The paper drifts from his fingers, cut into memory, and falls back into the surf. Or where the surf was, as the wave begins to ebb.]

I think that's for you, not for me. If we go under, you'll think you can't breathe, but you climb the steps, you carry the crown -

[Another curse, another language, and perhaps Lazarus will recognize ancient Greek spoken with an accent not Paul's own.]

You can breathe. I don't know what happens, with you here. I don't know what changes.

[hearthebell]

[L hugs his knees tighter, staring at the clouds as though hoping to read some further clue or answer there. For him, nothing is clearly written in the air. He turns his face back towards Paul.]

Tell me more about the steps and the crown!

[Shouting, not out of anger or with the intent to intimidate, but because the gale force winds are competing with his generally soft and resonant baritone.

He recognizes the Greek. His eyes are alight with comprehension as he uses his finger to gouge letters into the wet sand with rough, slicing motions.

A T H E N A

N A V A L

V I T A E ]

Why do you think I'll be able to breathe underwater?

[In his experience, so far, breaking the laws of physics while lucid dreaming is a feat of absurd self-deception. He's not yet managed it, though he has heard it's possible.

The waves are coming closer to shore now. He inches back when it washes away his letters, frowning, writing more.

A V I A T E

H A V E N

EVIL]

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul's hand still gripping a knife clenches as Lazarus calls to him about the the steps and the crown. The storm howls, and even Paul's soaked hair whips in his wind, lashing across his bare face.]

It's not water.

[He needs to do better than that, but the words already come like he's hauling them dripping from the deep, his voice fiercely controlled. Tears are streaming from the corners of his eyes as they burn with the burden of relentless sight.]

This is the future.

[Paul has always dreamed it as the sea, even before he came here. The waves, the rocks, the storms, the depths. The scent of cinnamon gives way to the scent of sea-brined lime. Paul takes another breath, his lips part to speak again, and the storm arcs with a thousand bolts of lightning over the sea, a blinding, tumultuous flash.

When the thunder comes, it comes like a blow. Paul falls to his knees on the sand under its weight.]

The king heard the call, and his heart cried out in answer. The people heard the cry, and did not understand, and their voices rose up and they asked, oh king, what has made you cry out?

[There are two voices layered over each other. One is Paul's, despairing, furious, and the other is his, but as if he grew up speaking this language, learned it with river mud under his nails as a sphinx rose new and gleaming in the stretching sands of the Old Kingdom.]

[hearthebell]

[He's listening, even as he claws into the wet sand to give some kind of visual and tactile element to his thought process. Perhaps it's the desperation of a man to feel as though there is something tangible to show for his efforts, the knowledge that thought alone does not look urgent or productive to those around him.

The spectacle of many keyboards and monitors and television screens is an impressive one, he knows from experience. Technology is godlike to those who don't understand it; it's a show of power not unlike the pyramids of old.

He buckles at first under the thunder, but it's merely loud to him, not physically heavy. He redoubles his efforts, shouting to Paul to be heard.]

That's good!

[Encouraging the mysterious, double-toned discourse even as he's working out how to understand and incorporate it. It's easier to reduce than it is to extrapolate, as a general rule; too much information, mostly irrelevant, is better than not enough, if there's even a grain of truth to it that's possible to isolate from the noise.

He doubts very much that any of it is as irrelevant as it may first appear, if only because his gut tells him to listen like their lives depends on it, and not tune it out so that he can concentrate more fully on his puzzle. There's a bleak sort of logic to it; if there are two people here, wouldn't there be two puzzles, or at least two interlocking components?]

What has made you cry out!

[His last word sounds stifled and muted, if only because a realization has struck him. Two of them. He mutters the words in the message by pairs, discovering, in dismay, that they are all the same.

L E V I A

His finger curls in the sand.

OK.... ok. Lycka, at his side, is silent and still, staring at the body of water.

Athena is "wisdom," naval is "ocean," vitae is "life." Aviate is "sky," haven is "safety," evil is "danger."

Alphabetically?

Danger. Life. Ocean. Safety. Sky. Wisdom.]

Here's what I think!

[He stands, letting the water smudge out the beginning of that long word. Repeated five times, it blared like a warning klaxon, didn't it?]

This starts with danger and ends with wisdom. There's a life form in the ocean... and that's where we'll find the key. There's a door in the sky, and... that's our way to safety. I'm guessing...

[He laughs mirthlessly. There's an ugliness to it, an unfairness.]

If keys have teeth... I think that teeth, also, have keys.

[terriblepurpose]

[Teeth, and the ocean that is not an ocean surges at the word. Paul cries out, like a gull, and prophecy spills forth in that long-dead desert language:]

An open eye, opening, opening the inside of you and the king called out to the people, be not afraid, I have seen the throne, I have seen the steps, I have seen the crown and the people did not understand, they could not hear the throne, and they whispered to themselves, but the king did not hear as he looked past the horizon and he raised his hand -

[The mist-wreathed distant end of the beach stirs as if moved by the breath of some immense thing, and the waves pull back, and pull back, baring the shallows of these shores to open air.]

And even the sea bowed. [Both voices say, young, exhausted, so softly that it shouldn't be possible to hear it over the wind.] Come and get me, then.

[The tidal wave comes like fate falling across a doomed city, a wall of concussive water that, if it were real, would surely crush them both, shatter their bodies like so much flotsam (or are they jetsam, after all) before they even had the chance to drown.

Paul opens his arms to it, his chin raised, as the sky is swallowed by the sea, and the shadow of the yet-to-be. In the next moment, the wave will fall, and he sees the black deep that they will be swept into, as he has again, and again, and again.

There is no way to know it is the deepest trench in this formless sea, except that he knows it.]

[hearthebell]

[Lycka moves nimbly, for something weighing multiple tons. It helps that she's not truly beached, just as she is not a true whale, but she still instinctively moves to shield her narrow-boned Sleeper from the crush of the churning waves. He moves backwards on his hands and feet, crablike, his heart pounding in his chest from the exhilaration of solving a puzzle, the fear of the unknown turning into a very rational fear of the known.

Further back from the waves, and incidentally closer to Paul, he can hear the prophecy more clearly. Mighty in proportion, seeming biblical in nature. He finds his feet, standing, pale in the greying light of the storm. Because he can interpret what happens here and decode what it means, but he can't control the nature of the ride that snatches him up when he slips into a dream any more than one can control their tea leaves or the tarot cards they draw.

Paul can't control this either, he realizes. Only predict, and if dreams can pose a danger to a Sleeper, surely that monstrous wave would do the job. Lycka turns herself into a dam for his benefit, but he knows how many tons of water will come crashing down on their heads, how futile it will ultimately be in the end.

Unlike Paul, he doesn't open his arms to it, rather crosses his ankles in front of him and folds his hands in his lap. The sand under his fingernails, a conch in his peripheral vision.

Lycka is there when he opens his eyes. He senses it, even as he cannot see in this black pit of pressing leagues. Paul might be very close, or extremely far from him. Lycka's percussive pops and clicks check the area through echolocation.

Meanwhile, L holds out as long as he can until his lungs burn and reflexively fill themselves; it turns out, in the end, that he can breathe after all.]

[terriblepurpose]

[There is a body in the water with them, a hundred meters away. It floats inverted in the pressure that should crush them both, the freezing sea that ought to sap the warmth of life from them. One leg is drawn up, like a dancer's, and the arms are stretched towards the depths.

And there is another body underneath it, dreaming and vast, a body that cannot be described in one set of words. Every pulse of sound reveals a shifting boundary, a new form, the myriad creatures of the sea manifesting and disappearing in roiling nightmare.

This is where it ends. This is where it always ends. Paul will wake gasping and hollowed, and he will get up, wake Lazarus, bypass this talk of keys and doors and teeth, and he will never step foot in Cassandra again.

Above the nightmare, a pair of eyes open, and it's as if the moon devoured the sun's light whole and cast it from itself. The black depths tremble around them like a beating heart as they are flooded with luminous, unnatural light, and then -

- they are in the shallow surf of the black stone shore of a tiny island. The sea is still black and lightless, even as it gently laps the land, and the sky above them is shifting to strangeness as the moon slowly eats the sun in eclipse.

There is mist in front of them, clustered only around whatever must fill the center of this jutting patch of land, the black stone of the shore giving way to a glowing pearlescence as it approaches the fog: a promontory of paleblood stone, just like that of the Sanctuary where their bodies still sleep.

Paul kneels in the surf in all black, from his boots to his high, closed collar and stares, disbelieving, with eyes still unbearably open.]

What is this?

[The cradle-language of civilization, the language of the first laws and first kings, spoken by a boy born uncounted millennia after their monuments fell back into the earth from which they were raised.

In front of L, there is a key, underneath the waves, glowing paleblood clear through the black water. A key that changes shape as soon as it's perceived, shifting back and forth: a key, long-handled; a tooth, short and serrated; a key, shaped as a dagger; a tooth, razor-sharp and thin. If he touches it, if he dares to, the mist will begin to recede over the steps carved into the sloping stone.

Here they are, at last.]

[hearthebell]

[L remembers the outline of this from reaching into Paul's mind, back when he was wholly new to even realizing his blood type, much less the power it held. He remembers the fear, the pressure, the slugs and worms on his face that turned out to be a manifestation of his own psychic injury. Much like reaching blithely into the hollow trunk of a tree only to find a hornet nest, he had been greedy for knowledge then.

Strange, how one with that predilection never really learns. Lycka nudges his shoulder roughly as she passes, the spirit of the sea life surrounding her spooking what should have no predators, what should be fully confident and fearless even among leopard seals and sharks.

Kicking his legs, he starts to propel himself toward the silhouette in the water against the terrible light in the deep, the water reverberating around him, and Lycka returns to his side, teeth close around his arm this time, razor sharp and slicing in spite of her attempt to be gentle with him. His last awareness in the depths is being pulled away from the folly of his curiosity like a rag doll, as swiftly as Lycka can manage without dislocating his shoulder, and even then...

He feels the wind again, more of a breeze than a buffeting gust. The black water licks the blood from Lycka's teeth away- he knows she's sorry, he knows she had to- and he uses his uninjured arm to push himself to a crouch, and then rise, standing. He sways, his center of balance off, before making his way toward the softly questioning Paul's kneeling, black-clad figure.

A glint catches his eye. Left arm, it is, because the fingers of his right don't open and close reliably at the moment. He bends, closes a hand around the key. Whatever shape it takes, he thinks, it has one purpose that matters more than any other.]

Something real...?

[It would have to be. The breeze carries off the mist, and Lycka floats alongside him once more.]

cw: human remains, dead animals (non-graphic)

[terriblepurpose]

[There is no doubt what the steps will lead to even before the last shreds of mist drift clear. There is no mystery revealed when a rough-cut seat emerges at the top of the steep climb, an ugly imposition over what once was a gracefully rising marvel, the delicate lines of the spire ruined by its angular mutilation.

It is what is on the steps that is the mystery.

An ornate, illuminated sword tossed down without its sheath. A tiny, sodden falcon, curled with its back to the sea. A grinning human skull wearing aviator glasses, wound in a length of chain that ripples from devotional to murderous to confining, on a bed of golden roses. A crumpled, colorful poster. A beautiful cream-colored rabbit, splayed out long and still. A shining apple missing a single bite made by inhuman teeth. A perfectly articulated skeletal human hand, spread protectively over a stack of letters written on a substance as thin as breath.

On the throne, lightly steaming, a simple, perfect teacup and saucer.

But these are not the things that Paul's eyes fix to. What he stares at is the back of a distant figure no longer distant, standing on the first step, twin knives held lightly in their hands. They are sheathed in a form-fitting armor, textured as shark skin is, an armor that is so closely molded to them that it shifts and expands with their breathing. A cowl of gauzy silver hoods their head and drapes over their slim shoulders.

The knife in one hand is a knife. The knife in the other hand is an idea of a knife, a flickering nothingness fixed to a black stone handle.]

No. [Paul stands, doubled voice lashing out like a chain, like the weight of command.] No, this isn't real.

[As if hearing them for the first time, the figure half-turns their head, revealing the slightest sliver of yet more armor curved over their jaw. They pause there, as still as marble.]

Do you see me?

[The figure asks, in a rasping, lilting, maddened chorus. It raises a foot, and Paul lurches from the sea, stricken by a wordless, incomprehensible horror -

- the delicate fingerbones snap underneath it, and Paul throws himself at the figure as swift and silent as murder, twin knives blooming again from his hands. The figure turns to meet him, and they set at once to the earnest work of trying to kill each other, a violence so all-consuming it leaves no room for anything else.

L is free to do as he will. They aren't going anywhere, as the moon slides over the sun, a total eclipse.]