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: violence, impalement

[terriblepurpose]

[L might be surprised (or he might not, by now) to know that on the steps, Paul is also solving a puzzle.

The fight is a silent one except for their footfalls and the glancing of knife against knife. There's no spare breath to waste as they clash in a quicksilver and black near-blur. They might seem indistinguishable to an outsider, at first, but inside the lightning storm Paul begins to find the measure of what he's dealing with.

Paul fights with killing precision, as he was trained, and the collapsing star fury in him pushes his perceptions and reactions to their most crystalline, vicious edge. He learned his lesson about shields, and every strike he makes is aimed to maim or kill, his knives moving nearly as fast as his impulses can fire.

The other figure flows sinuously around them as if they knows where he'll be. They bat away Paul's strikes with a knife-that-is-not and then, languidly, contemptuously, find a place to cut him with the other. They know where Paul will be before he's there, and for an eternity of seconds they are locked in place at the foot of the steps where the figure leapt to greet him as Paul's blood rises in silver lines across his face, seeps through shallow slits in his clothing. He's being toyed with.

The star collapses. Gravity shifts. Paul opens his open eyes, and he stops thinking about what he'll do before he does it.

The figure is pushed, one step at a time, up the stairs, and all Paul needs is a mistake, one mistake, to force them into an error and then it will be over, and they will go, and Paul will never set foot in Cassandra again.

The hooded figure stumbles. They fall back, the real knife falling from their hand, the unreal one flickering, and Paul falls on them like death itself.

Or he tries to. He is caught, as if a hand was placed firmly under his sternum, and he doesn't understand what has happened until the figure sits up and pulls back on the shimmering barbed fishing spear that has extended from their hand. He doesn't scream, he can't, as his knives fall from nerveless fingers and the figure reaches out with an open hand -

- and pulls Paul in close, like a friend, like a brother, weaving sharkskin fingers into his hair as they rest Paul's head against their shoulder and cradle him there, Paul twitching on his knees and wet around the mouth with unvoiced agony.]

Look at you. Playing with knives. Playing games. Playing pretend. [The chorus is a husky, gentle lullaby as they whisper into the curve of Paul's ear.] You're trying so hard. It's too much, and you're not enough. Little Paul Atreides, all by himself. I know you're afraid. But you're going to hurt yourself. You're going to hurt everyone.

You shouldn't have to do this alone. You can't. Let me help you. Let me keep them safe for you.

[The spear retracts, and the figure stands above Paul, looking down on him clutching at the hole pierced through his center. They look without eyes, their hood fallen back over the seamless caul that obscures their face. They turn. They climb, one bloody footstep at a time, up steps that have become empty of any sign of the objects once strewn over them. They pay no attention to L or to Lycka, as if they are not there, until they stand in front of the throne, where a single teacup still steams as if only now poured.

They face out towards the sea and kneel on the left side of the throne, dripping hands on their knees, and they are silent and still.

Halfway up the stairs, Paul lies on his back and stares at an eclipse, silver blood trickling down the steps as he wills himself to get up, to get on hands and knees and crawl if he has to, but his body betrays him as much as his mind has. As much as he has.]

[hearthebell]

[Steel-on-steel and well-matched footwork are the constant background noise as L grinds away at his process, is delivered to the keyhole, unlocks the door. Tall and sharp, The doorway is geometric and angular, ending in a point like the highest point on the tower-like structure, and though it's opening slowly, the progress is steady; soon there will be enough space for a slender humanoid or a charm bracelet orca whale to easily maneuver through.

The door leaves with L, however. Waking up means leaving everything here, perhaps indefinitely. When Lycka lets him gently down, he sees the copy kneeling just yards away next to the throne, but ignoring him. There's silver blood on the floor and trailing to the steps; most of it is not from L's wounded arm.]

Lycka...

[In an undertone; the shark-skinned adversary doesn't seem to react to him, but should he decide to engage the scrawny detective in battle, knowing a few practical capoeira maneuvers probably won't be enough. He waits, wedging himself in the doorway to ensure that it remains open, watching anxiously for his omen to reappear.

For the second time in this dream, Lycka nudges up against Paul. This time she doesn't have the buoyancy of water to aid her in carrying dead weight; her contact is insistent, asking for him to help by holding on.

If he can't, she'll take hold of the loosest part of his clothing she can with her razor sharp teeth, carrying him to the door and pushing him through before L follows, sitting bolt upright on his bedroll.

Eyes still heavy-lidded from the sleeping potion, he recognizes immediately that the harm visited on him in the dream remains. His arm looks like an orca whale's jaws dragged him to safety by it. He turns his eyes to Paul, reasoning that it's better to face this result sooner rather than putting off what might be unpleasant.]

[terriblepurpose]

[Lycka lifts Paul by the front of his jacket, and this time, he's awake enough to dreamily wonder at her. She's beautiful, and if she's the last thing he sees, he wouldn't mind. He does his best to help her, but that amounts to very little.

She's not the last thing Paul sees. When Lazarus turns to look, Paul looks back, his eyes wide and fixed. They're green again, he can tell, because he can close them, and he does. His hand rests below his sternum, where there is no hole, only the jagged marks of an orca's teeth in the robe Paul was not wearing when she tugged him back to the waking world. The cuts are vanished too, as if they were not there, and Paul finds enough coherent hate left in him to be offended by another inconsistent rule.

A passing native Disciple pauses, looking in on the pair, and upon seeing Lazarus' injuries claps a hand over their mouth and says, through their fingers: "Oh! I will fetch -"]

Get away from us. ["Brother Paul, I really don't -] Get away from us.

[Paul's eyes snap open again as he snarls, guttural and ugly, pushing up on one hand to glare at the interloper with his other hand still pressed to his unharmed chest. He looks like he could kill them, and for a moment, he wildly thinks he might. They turn on their heels and flee, likely to fetch someone.

He spits, leaving his mouth tasting no more or less like the sea, and lowers his eyes to the stones beneath him. He curls his hand against them, fingernails catching on a seam, and breathes in. He breathes out.]

Did you get what you wanted?

[Bitter as lime.]

[hearthebell]

[Somehow, Paul actually looks like he's uninjured and whole... at least, physically. Understandably, the boy's shaken, and having had other dreams to compare this experience to, L fully understands why.

Every dream is immersive; some are dangerous. There are rules he can always rely on so long as they occur within his own mind. Everything was sharper, harsher, and more difficult, and that's not even addressing the apparent gravitational pull the dream possessed. Paul's not the type to fall asleep on the job- anyone who's met him even briefly would recognize that- and yet, until he'd pulled Paul ashore with Lycka, L had thought it was the only way for two people to exist alongside one another in the same dream.

As Paul snaps at the Disciple, L's broader, more muscular shoulders shrink and curl inward; if his strength and resolve are a matter of checks and balances, this ordeal has overdrawn him significantly. His injury is the least of it; his mind isn't even much of a refuge, considering the hell it just pushed them both through.

He starts to consider whether or not he owes an apology, prioritizing intent first and then the result, and somewhere, the train of thought fizzles out like a small meteor skating on the surface of the sea and sinking. He pulls his knees close, staring straight ahead, a ringing in his ears that's cut sharply when Paul asks his question in a biting tone.

He stares back, wary and troubled, as though Paul is speaking the same strange, ancient language in the dream, and this time, he can't understand.

He does, of course, but the answer has the same disconnect as the apology he might or might not owe. Lycka, the size of a human infant, cleaves to his chest, pressing herself as close as she can to her Sleeper.]

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul catches the flicker of motion, the silence in lieu of answer and raises his head only to watch Lazarus draw in on himself. He sucks in air between his clenched teeth, bitter rage dissolving into hollowness, into an ache deeper than the phantom pain of tearing barbs.

Look at you.]

I didn't mean that. [Subdued, empty, quiet.] I didn't...

[He can decide what else he didn't after he does what he's supposed to. Paul steels himself, then pushes to his feet, moving slowly and gingerly as he pushes aside stacked blankets and retrieves a Trench-fitted first aid kit. He'd been being responsible. It had almost been a joke.

He sinks back to his knees to approach Lazarus, still careful, deliberate. He thinks of the difference between the Lazarus of the dream, his commanding brilliance and the inexorable driving force of his mind barely contained in his bent-stick body, and this Lazarus, hale and cowed into silence.

Look at you.]

I'm not angry with you. Let me see.

[hearthebell]

[He blinks, letting his eyes remain closed a little longer. While he's in darkness, he sees the edges of a padded room around a door. The keypad's giving him problems; he's locked in, and when he opens his eyes again, they look hunted and lost.

He holds his injured arm out like it's not a part of him, his left cradling Lycka, whose tail thrashes in frustration. He pulls from a final reserve, remembers the code, and frees himself. Lycka looks up, seems to sigh her relief.]

Anger would be a reasonable... natural reaction. I don't take it personally, but I... don't...

[He shakes his head; the motion is over-vigorous, lacking in subtle control.]

I didn't think it was possible. Your arrival, I mean. I didn't know that could happen.

[terriblepurpose]

I know. I believe you.

[Paul fishes the fabric scissors from the kit first and notices his hands are shaking. His hands don't shake. But they do, and it takes too long to make them stop. Once they are still, he cuts away the sleeve of Lazarus' shirt and pulls back the fabric.

The teeth marks of a predator, however gently meant, are ugly things. Paul soaks gauze in green-tinged antiseptic and begins to clean the wounds, his eyes lowered to the task. He's as careful as he knows how to be. (Not enough.)]

That wasn't your fault. It was mine. These aren't so bad. You'll be all right.

[hearthebell]

[L's dark grey eyes follow the trembling of the scissors, but they don't seem to make him any more trepidatious. The arm around which Paul's cutting, after all, hasn't felt like his since he shed, and what's one more clean cut if they happen to slip?

It's OK, he wants to reassure, my soul turns on me sometimes and causes damage, but only when it has to, only when it's really worth the price.

Instead, he holds Lycka, watching Paul's hands tremble, watching them steady, all with the detachment of a student observing a surgery.]

Why is it your fault?

[Genuine question, practically motivated. Blame isn't productive, but an ounce of prevention, and all of that.]

It was real...

[A dream, obviously, it was a dream, but that does not mean it was fake. L came here for something true, after all, and in that way, he did get what he wanted.]

Will you be alright?

[He asks with the hesitant caution of a skeptic, a disbeliever.]

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul doesn't answer right away. He finishes cleaning the wounds, then dabs on a thick, floral-scented paste derived from vileblood. The bleeding begins to slow, and he assesses whether or not any of these will need stitching.]

I said I wouldn't let anything happen to you.

[And here, the evidence of how thoroughly and completely he failed to do so. The way Lazarus holds Lycka so tightly to himself, like an anchor, like a ward, is indescribable. Or maybe Paul doesn't want to describe it to himself.]

I should have known better. [He's surprised at the even keel of his voice.] I'm all right. Is there anything else that's hurt?

[Since he didn't look. He barely noticed the other man there except to be frustrated by him, Lazarus' presence like the grit in an oyster that has spit this perfect, bloody pearl of knowing. While Lazarus fought to find a way out of the dream, Paul abandoned him.

Of course he's all right, as he moves with the smooth precision of a machine. He's always all right. He's always left standing unharmed in the middle of devastation. Why would it ever change?]

[hearthebell]

[He shakes his head again, the same strangely violent and exaggerated motion, as though all the tension and energy in his body has congregated in his neck and found an outlet there.]

No one's ever been able to make that promise to me and keep it.

[It's meant to absolve Paul of his guilt, perhaps, but there's no way to say it that doesn't sound terribly sad, is there.

He ignores the question about other injuries; he suspects there's something else, but it's deeper than flesh, the kind that can only be cured by solitude, rest, small and repetitive palliative practices that can put him right, affecting the approximation of balance for someone who wasn't born with it and failed to cultivate that baseline.

His is a pattern of spectacularly clever voyages and nearly catatonic salvage missions. The middle ground is an hazy and uncertain place that he can never inhabit for long, because he will always swing to an extreme that will beget its opposite.

He swallows, adjusting his emphasis, because the point of prophecy is that it hasn't yet occurred.]

Will you be alright? The vision stalking you is real, so... what will you do?

[terriblepurpose]

[A better person would react differently. Sympathy, perhaps, condolences. Some kind of reassurance, or at the very least, an apology for being part of a long line of failures.

Paul glances up with darkened eyes and a set jaw, then looks down once more to start bandaging the wounds. The salve has done its work stemming blood flow, and the shared vigor of all Sleeper blood will do the rest. (It might scar, Paul thinks, and there's the feeling of needing knives in his hands.)]

The things I see... [This is as much reassurance as he knows how to give, in this tight, quiet tone.] They don't always happen the way I see them. They don't always mean what they seem like they mean.

I'll have to think about it. [He secures the bandage with a tucked end and a piece of adhesive, sits back on his heels.] What are you going to do?

[Now that he's seen whatever that was. Paul casts his mind back to the steps, to the things on them. A handful he could make suppositions about, but the sound of finger bones snapping - his hands clench and he doesn't know why, a tendon in his neck twitching.]

[hearthebell]

[He glances down, for just a moment, at the arm, seeming startled by the progress that's been occurring while his mind was occupied with other matters.

If he sheds away from this body, it might not scar. Then again, his mind hasn't shed at all, and though he had his doubts about how much his mind had stayed the same when he'd first entered this place, that doubt has dissipated like dew when the sun warms a blade of grass. If his mind and the dream it created were the source for these injuries, in other words, they could well remain when everything else in the waking world now is just a husk.

The doubt he has been watching Paul with does not dissipate. It remains, because it takes more to budge it in someone as jaded as the detective. For every way the world has left him untouched, there's another way it's left deep and experienced grooves that he responds to as naturally as instinct.

I saw it, too. However much you might want to escape... it can't look like what it isn't through both of our lenses.]

Stay out of the water.

[It's unclear, if that's his answer to Paul's question, or a quiet plea for the boy to do that himself.]

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul looks at Lazarus tiredly. He's doing everything tiredly, exhausted beyond his capacity to wring wakefulness out of himself. Internal systems that should bend to his will rebel against him. His thoughts are scattered. He searches for the center he should be able to stand in, the self-observing-self, and he finds nothing.

So all he says to that is, softly:]

I think that's a good idea.

[For Lazarus, if he can manage it. Paul still feels the water on his knees, against the back of his mind. His fists stay closed in his lap, nails digging into the skin.]

What did you see?

[hearthebell]

I...

[I was there, every moment was panic and adrenaline, but...]

I saw everything.

[He keeps the record with fearsome accuracy, and in a low, measured voice, he recounts the dream's facts, and word-for-word Paul's prophecies; he only doesn't mention the padded room and what's inside of it. Whatever Paul missed is told to him now, from the perspective of one who watched and remembered even while he was burning himself out.

His left fingertip traces the letter "L" on the cap of his knee. Then "E." "V."]

[terriblepurpose]

[There's a precise moment where Paul's fingernails draw blood from his palms. His expression doesn't shift from the blankness it fell into when Lazarus spoke about how Lycka carried him to the shore, but by the time Lazarus is done his flaking fingertips are sticky with it.]

Don't.

[His voice is as soft as how he reaches out to touch the back of Lazarus' tracing left hand, a gentle, stilling gesture.]

There's time. I have time. [Calm, centered.] Lazarus. I need you to tell me that this stays here. Do you understand?

[hearthebell]

[The contact works to still him, even if the way his finger presses halfway through the "I" suggests that it's difficult. He stares at the blood on Paul's fingertips for a long, quiet moment.]

Would you tell me anything to keep this a secret, up to and including "I have time?"

[terriblepurpose]

[Lazarus is not a fool. He's many things, things Paul has yet to fathom even in part, but he's not a fool. He sees the blood, he saw the vision, he saw what Paul is, what he can do. It's the part of him that went for knives, that always goes for the knife, that nearly says that's not what you should ask me.

But Lazarus has seen. The threat lies implicit, latent. The threat is already heard in the way he holds his omen close and looks at Paul and decides to ask, anyway, knowing what the hand on his is capable of.

That's what does it, in the end. The asking. Paul tries to speak, tries again, his tongue at the back of his teeth, and his shoulders sink inwards as his head bows, hair shielding his face.]

You came back for me.

[Said like: I don't understand. Said like: You made a mistake.]

Yes. I would. I need to - [a breath sucked through teeth] - I need to decide what to do. Please.

[hearthebell]

[Off-kilter contradictions aside, peculiarity and frail tendencies aside, L knows what to look for in people with something they would really rather hide. He can pierce pretense with the skill of a savant and the simplicity of a child,. It hardly ever endears him to anyone, of course; one could argue that some pretense and cultivation of persona are human rights, unnecessary and even cruel to challenge with such a pointed approach.

L's priority has never been endearment. Otherwise, he might have lived longer.]

You were in trouble.

[A pause.]

You are in trouble, and it's the kind that can incur collateral damage.

[He thinks of the way the fish scattered. Puts it in Paul's head, too, with more finesse and subtlety than his last crude foray into the boy's thoughts.]

Don't you think you have a duty to them, and yourself, to warn them of what's coming? However shameful you might consider it, to ask for help... failing alone is much worse. When the stakes are high, the choice should be clear, to anyone entrusted with a decision that can affect many lives.

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul's eyes flicker up at the image Lazarus puts there, an image that overlays the answering echo Paul meets it with, the same thing but from a dozen slightly different angles. All the ways he's seen it, in their subtle variations, and then: tiny snapping sounds, a rustle of near-paper. Perfectly grey eyes creased by a smile, with a careless smear of blood underneath one.

Paul jerks his hand away as if it were slashed at, and his thoughts shift, in an instant, to a wall of biochemical processes, into the blood-hormone cycle, into anything, everything else. His tone is ice-brittle, crackling when he answers:]

I am House Atreides. [As if that explains everything.] I know what my duty is. You will not presume to remind me of it again.

[He sits back on his heels, not unlike the kneeling figure by the throne.]

I'll warn them when I have a plan. When I know what I'm warning them about.

[hearthebell]

[L stares back, a steady, quiet constant counter-weighing Paul's offended discontent.

Referencing any house will never make L understand any matter from the intended perspective. Unlike Paul, he has none; he is an orphan of the world, a citizen of nowhere, a universal bastard with a brain dropped from heaven.

L's often the child in a roomful of people, even when he is not the youngest. The way he looks at Paul suggests that it is not the case, at this precise moment.]

So... you'll warn them when you're ready.

[He shakes his head, returning his gaze straight ahead of him, over the curve of Lycka's nestled body.]

No one's ever ready.

[It's a way of saying "never."]

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul has been trying. He has been trying, with every choice and every step, to hold the center of the world together. He has been trying since well before he came here, when the weight of a world fell across his shoulders in a pall of smoke and the burning dawn of a desert sunrise over that same world's ending.

If he can get it right, if he can find the rhythm, if he can learn how to master this like he has mastered everything else he has ever put his hands to, the world will stop ending. He knows that isn't true. He's not a child. He's not playing games, or playing pretend, and he stopped playing with knives the day he put one into another human being. It wasn't about being ready then, and it isn't about being ready now. It's about what he has to do, and how he will do it.]

I am. [And yet: his eyes are dark, and terrified, and young.] I'm asking you for time. Not never. If you don't see a warning from me before the month's turn, I want you to tell them, and tell them everything.

[He knows what everything means. He won't think about it, but he knows, a knowledge held in his bleakly empty eyes: here is the weapon Lazarus can use against him, if that's what it takes to believe that Duke Atreides understands what his duty is.]

If that's not enough, then - tell me what you want. Tell me what I have to do.

[hearthebell]

[This is where they do resonate and connect; while L has never had the expectation of pedigree or the inheritance of legacy, he knows well the weight of the world on his shoulders. He's built a legacy all his own, fought wars all his own, and probably only coped with the mental load by reframing everything as a game.

He takes his games so seriously. And why wouldn't he? After awhile, they were all that was real in that room, more important than rest or meals or a human touch.

Nodding is his way of accepting Paul's resolution. It sets a limit, which is important; it sets a date instead of stretching someday beyond what's practical. But when he meets Paul's eyes again, he sees an invitation there, of sorts, if an S.O.S. signal can be considered such.]

Build a phalanx... or a pyramid, if you like, king of kings.

[Somehow it doesn't sound mocking. Maybe some sort of respect is even present; L heard the prophecies, saw the symbolism pockmarking the dream.]

Tell one other person, someone you trust, as soon as possible. That way, you have two backups, and you get to keep your cards close without keeping them completely hidden. Broaden awareness as you grow more certain of what to expect.

[terriblepurpose]

[If not for the other thing, Paul would agree with Lazarus at once. That's exactly what he plans to do, after he rests and organizes his thoughts. He would even tell Lazarus who he intends to tell, as a matter of offering yet more assurance. There is a relief in being held accountable for what he does that feels like the universe reordering itself into lines that are beginning to make sense again.

Paul wishes it were mocking. Paul wishes this was a game. Instead, he looks like Lazarus brought the spear from the dream and ran him through with it again, and the way the half-stitched void in Paul's chest opens it feels like he has. The way purpose stirs in his blood at it.]

Don't. Don't say that. [He doesn't understand, how he can keep breaking, and never be broken. How his heart keeps beating and his eyes stay open. How he can sound like this, helpless, vulnerable, pathetic, and not be torn open. Come and get me, then, and nothing ever does.] Not here.

[In this temple of the yet-to-come, the will-be, surrounded by the listening ears of gods. In this place, where he was almost someone else, and he isn't anymore, but he could have been. He thinks he could have been. He wanted to try.]

Not here. Please.

[hearthebell]

[It was a deliberate word choice, and an elegant one (at least to L) for its oblique reference to Ozymandias. He expected some sort of reaction to it, perhaps a self-conscious brush-off, or for Paul to sit a little straighter with such an explicit acknowledgment of the respect he's demanded, at various points and to varying degrees.

What he doesn't expect is that gutted fear, but L, at his core, is better at one thing than anything else, and that is pushing buttons. Regardless of whether he's trying, regardless of whether he's looking.

He realizes, in its pure and distilled form, what Paul is truly terrified of others knowing, and with it, he recognizes the power and leverage that comes with this knowledge.

He nods; his understanding is clear, his agreement implied.]

Tell your one. Soon.

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul is already rising before soon, as if pulled on hooks, released from whatever last tethers were holding him in place to this floor. He doesn't look at Lazarus, or anything else, the world a static-distant place compared to the urgency of his need to be anywhere else.]

I will.

[He should have walked away, in the woods. He should have listened when Lazarus told him he wanted to be a Night Walker, and thought of what that meant, coming from a mind like his. Paul talked about people being puzzles and he never stopped to think about himself as one of them.

But for all that, he's been solved. He has been cut between torment and mercy, and no matter how much it's agony, it's also freedom. He doesn't have a choice anymore. The path is set for him to walk. All he has to do is follow it. So he turns his unseeing eyes in Lazarus' direction, hollowed and numbed, and says:]

Thank you.

[And unless Lazarus aims to keep him there, he'll be gone, passing by the hurrying acolytes bringing a real medic with them as if they are not there.]